


The Here And Now

by TotallyJeannius



Series: Tangled up in knots someone else tied [4]
Category: Resurrection (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Post-Series, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Starting Over, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 52,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3988249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotallyJeannius/pseuds/TotallyJeannius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the year that elapsed in the series finale, the dearly departed are not the only things to return to the small town of Arcadia, Missouri. As the seasons change, something extraordinary and unexpected begins to develop between one of Arcadia's most prominent citizens and one of its newest residents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Left To Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Nathaniel's birth in the series finale, Margaret adjusts to life away from the Langstons and a familiar face returns to Arcadia.

> But sometimes the world disrobes, slips its dress off a shoulder, stops time for a beat. If we look up at that moment, it's not due to any ability of ours to pierce the darkness, it is the world's brief bestowal. The catastrophe of grace.
> 
> —Anne Michaels, _Fugitive Pieces_

I. Margaret

     The weather has been unseasonably chilly for November, and a warm shower is a welcome relief to the knots and aches in her shoulders. _If only the warm water could also wash away the past thirty-six hours_ , she thinks to herself, as she watches the water swirling down the drain. She is so lost in her melancholy that she doesn't notice that the water is gradually losing its warmth until her teeth begin to chatter. It is only then that she realizes that the minutes have been ticking away and that she is shivering, not just from the cold water, but because she is sobbing.

Everything had fallen apart. She doesn't want to think about how Preacher James might have been right after all and that it had been her family that had facilitated the arrival of something sinister into the world. She doesn't want to think about how everyone under this roof thinks the worst of her. She doesn't want to think about how the way Jacob looks at her has changed. And she especially doesn't want to think about the fact that she has died twice now. A horrible pain grips her chest, and she buries her face in her hands as she slowly sinks to the floor. She isn't a religious person, but if her past actions hadn't already damned her soul, she was surely damned now. She had done it to protect her family, but she had still done it. She had committed suicide and had knowingly let the other detainees drink from the poisoned chalice. And yet, the fact that she had died again seems to have no effect on the very people she had wanted to protect. _They don't even care_ , she realizes, and a painful sob rips through her as her tears continue to stream down her cheeks. Her body is shaking uncontrollably from the force of her sobs and from the freezing water. Her wedding day had been difficult, watching her dad die in her arms had been difficult, knowing she would die from cancer had been difficult. But this moment is the most painful and lonely feeling she has ever experienced.

"It's okay. Just let go."

The Returned man's voice comes to her as clearly as it had that morning in the barn all those years ago. She looks up and watches the water rushing down at her, slowly losing herself in its steady patter against the shower tiles. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Time seems to slow, and she feels the ache in her heart begin to ease. It's as if she's floating on her back near the dock on the lake again. She tries to imagine fluffy white clouds in a brilliant blue sky, but just as the sweet fragrance of summer gardenias drifts into the room, a different man's voice echoes in her ears.

"What is it you want, Margaret?"

Her eyes snap open. She shuts off the water, and the sound of her short, rapid breaths reverberates off the bathroom tiles. That voice had not been the one she was expecting to hear. Her heart continues to pound away furiously in her chest, an undeniable reminder that she is still alive—an undeniable reminder of just how close she had come to falling off the edge for good. And somehow, through the heartache and the loneliness, something akin to hopefulness finds its way to her. Because she realizes that if this is what it is to hit rock bottom, it also means she'll never feel lower than she does in this moment. And that realization is enough to stave off the temptation of letting go for a just a little while longer.

\---

After packing all of her items from the bathroom into her suitcase, she sits at the dressing table and feels the prick of fresh tears as she opens her jewelry box. She thinks back to those times when she would sit at the dressing table, and how, just as she was applying the finishing touch to her look, she would inevitably find Jacob leaning against the doorframe, watching her with a smile.

On the night of that disastrous family dinner last month, as she was sitting at her dressing table and slipping on her shoes, she had looked up to find Jacob standing in the doorway. It had been something familiar, and it had warmed her heart to see her grandson smiling at her with such love and admiration in his warm brown eyes. He had walked over to the dressing table and rummaged through her jewelry box before taking out the pearl bracelet her dad had given her for her eleventh birthday, the bracelet Ben had helped pick out. "I think you should wear this one," Jacob had said, and he had smiled brightly as the two of them worked together to fasten the bracelet around her slender wrist. After telling him how handsome he looked, she had told him to run along and see if Lucille needed any help downstairs, and he had given her a big smile and said, "You look really pretty, Grandma" as he skipped out of the room.

A few nights later, Jacob had stood in the doorway again as she applied one last sweep of blush to her cheeks. She had taken his hand, and he had walked her down the stairs to the front door. She had knelt down and apologized that she would probably be back too late to tuck him in, but he had shrugged and told her to have a good time at dinner. And with the words "You look really pretty, Grandma", he had pressed a warm kiss to her cheek.

She remembers everything about that night and the morning that followed in such perfect detail that it embarrasses her. Brian Addison had invited her out to dinner at the Arcadia Country Club, and the way his eyes had immediately found hers as she walked into the lobby had caused her heart to flutter. She had said hello, and he had gazed at her in a way that made her feel simultaneously nervous and exhilarated. The breathlessness in his voice when he said, "It's good to see you again, Margaret. You look lovely" had caused a blush to rise to her cheeks.

They hadn't said anything as they made their way to the dining room, but he had been walking so close that his arm occasionally brushed against hers, and she could feel his eyes watching her during the entire walk to their table. It embarrasses her how she had let her guard down that evening and had revealed so much to a perfect stranger. But there was something in his warm brown eyes that made her feel like she could be honest with him and that he wasn't judging her, no matter what she might say.

When they were sitting in the living room at his cousin's house, there had been a split second when she had forgotten that she had only met Brian that morning. There was something familiar about him—about how readily he smiled, about the natural ease he seemed to have with everyone. Whereas the sound of ice cubes being dropped into an Old Fashioned glass used to cause her to inwardly flinch, the sound had an almost musical quality to it when it was Brian who was pouring the whiskey. She had smiled as she looked at the various family photos that were spread throughout the living room . . . until her eyes found the picture of William Kirk among the family photos.

Later that night, she had tossed and turned for hours thinking about her conversation with Rachael and worrying about Jacob's safety. Eventually, her mind had drifted to Brian, the thought of whom caused her heart to clench. His asking her out to dinner had been "strictly business" after all. He had seemed so sincere when he told her that he found her interesting. But it had all just been part of his act, and she had rapidly blinked away the tears, scolding herself for foolishly believing that someone like him could ever be interested in someone like her.

The next morning she had confronted Brian with what she knew, and the way his handsome features had darkened had filled her with an awful sense of dread. She had met him less than a day ago, and yet she had felt a tremendous sense of loss at the idea that she would likely never see him again. The warmth and fascination she had seen in his eyes every time he had looked at her throughout the previous evening were gone, and she had felt her blood run cold.

"What is it you want, Margaret?" he had demanded.

He had asked the question in a tone that was laced with indignation, but Margaret couldn't help noticing that he was the only person who had ever bothered to ask her that question. It had confused her. She was so hurt and angered by his deception, but a part of her had felt inexplicably flushed with desire. He was so tall and so handsome and was standing only a few short steps away from her. The air had felt electrically charged with all the things they hadn't said to each other, and the fevered desperation with which she suddenly found herself wanting him—as a woman wants a man—had made her feel as though her blood had not only thawed, but caught fire. She had needed to get out of there as quickly as possible, so she told him to call off his business deal with Henry and to stay the hell away from her family in the coldest, steadiest voice she could manage. When she got to the door, she had wondered if—and to her shame, perhaps she even hoped—he would hurry over and slam the door shut to prevent her from leaving.

_And do what?_

Why did a part of her want Brian to roughly grab her by the arm, push her up against the door, and press his lips to hers? Why did she want to spear her fingers through his hair, pull him close, and passionately kiss him back? She had cast one last backward glance over her shoulder, but Brian had remained rooted to the same spot in the living room, with an unreadable expression on his handsome face as he silently watched her walk out the door. And just like that, the thing she had dared to hope might be possible for the two of them just the night before was gone, irrevocably ended before it had even started.

\---

She realizes that she still doesn't have an answer to his question.

The sound of the floorboard creaking draws her attention to the doorway, where Jacob is standing in his familiar spot. But the look on his face is anything but familiar. She offers him a small smile, but his eyes dart away, causing her heart to plummet. As she finishes packing the jewelry box into her suitcase, Fred walks into the room to take her things down to his car. Jacob lingers in the doorway for a few more seconds before quietly walking over to where she's seated at the foot of the bed and handing her a folded piece of construction paper.

"I want you to have this. Jenny helped me finish drawing it just a few minutes ago. It's a picture of me and all the people who are special to me," he tells her, his eyes still staring down at his feet. She opens the drawing and smiles as she reads the names written below their respective cartoon figures: Tom, Baby Nathaniel, Rachael, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, Marty, Jenny, Jacob, Mommy, Daddy, Maggie, Aunt Barbara, Uncle Fred, and Elaine. And at the very end is a woman in a black dress, with the word "Grandma" written underneath.

A single tear rolls down her cheek, and Jacob reaches out to wipe it away with his sleeve in a gesture that reminds her of her dad. She marvels at the perfect little boy in front of her, a boy who shares not only the same name as the great-grandfather he never met, but also his similar ability to comfort her. She thanks Jacob for the drawing and promises that she'll treasure it forever. He continues to stare at his feet, so she kneels down so that the two of them are at eye level. She gently lifts his chin and is about to ask him what's wrong when he suddenly throws his arms around her neck.

He's crying into her neck and repeating that he's sorry and that everything was his fault. His sobbing voice breaks Margaret's heart, and she holds her grandson tightly, kissing his hair and telling him not to blame himself. She wishes she knew what to say in this moment, but she doesn't know what she would have done differently if she could do it all over again. She had only wanted to protect her grandson, but all she'd ended up doing was making Jacob feel guilty or that he was somehow responsible for other people's actions.

"Do you hate me?" he asks her in a small, tearful voice.

"Oh, Jacob, of course not. I love you more than anything else in the whole wide world. Nothing could ever change that," she tells him.

He hugs her tighter and whispers into her ear, "I love you too, Grandma. I don't want anything bad to ever to happen to you. I don't want to lose you again. Please don't let go! Promise me you won't let go! Not yet."

She feels fresh tears threatening to spill, and she wonders if her grandson had heard her crying in the bathroom earlier or if he had somehow been able to feel how she had very nearly let go. Now it's her turn to wipe his tears away with her sleeve. She presses her forehead to his, saying "I promise I'll be here for you for as long as I can, okay?"

Her words seem to reassure him, and he presses a warm kiss to her cheek before he leaves the room to get ready for bed.

She slowly rises to her feet and gathers her old quilt from the bed. Silently, she looks around the room, steeling herself for the walk down the stairs and out the front door. She doesn't know if she will ever be allowed to set foot in this house again, but it is not her house or her home anymore. She had never wanted to marry Warren, but after so many years in this house, the thought of living somewhere else leaves her feeling untethered—as if she's all alone on a drifting ice floe, surrounded on all sides by only the dark, cold sea. She draws in a deep breath and slowly exhales. It has been a difficult thirty-six hours, but they're over now. She cannot go back to being Margaret Anderson any more than she can stop being Henry and Fred's mother or Jacob and Maggie's grandmother. But as she stands there, all alone in the silence, feeling uncertain of the future and completely exhausted, she finally has the strength to do what she had dreamed about doing so many times before: she slips the gold ring off her finger, leaves it on the dressing table, and walks out the door without so much as a backward glance.

\---

The sky is pitch black when she arrives at her apartment building. Fred helps her carry her things up the stairs to her apartment on the third floor and repeats his offer to let her stay at his place or at the cabin, but Margaret tells him that this arrangement is what's best for everyone. On his way out the door, her younger son gently touches her arm, and Margaret understands that he is trying to apologize for the way he had roughly dragged her out of the house last night and that he's sorry about everything she's been through since yesterday morning. After he leaves, Margaret unpacks her things and tries to get some rest. The warm, queen size bed is a welcome change from where she had spent last night.

It had been well after midnight when Fred and Agent Bellamy returned to the house after escorting the preacher down to the station. The mob had disbanded, and Margaret had been helping Maggie and Henry clear the debris scattered throughout the house in a tense silence. Everyone was exhausted and eager to get some sleep, but Henry had remained adamant in his refusal to let Margaret stay in the house. The words had stung, but they paled in comparison to the realization that no one was going to stand up for her. So she had spent the night in the back of Fred's SUV. Sleep had eluded her, and the old quilt Maggie had grabbed for her off the living room sofa had done little to keep her warm against the bitterly cold night.

In the morning, she had wandered into town, knowing that everyone would prefer she not be at the house when Lucille returned with the children and that she not come back until after Rachael had been safely moved elsewhere. 

She had walked into the library with no expectations. She certainly hadn't expected to be offered not only a job, but also a fully furnished apartment located just a short walk away from the library. Margaret had been expecting something small and sparse, but what she walked into was a light-filled apartment, with French doors that opened onto a small balcony and a lovely view of the park and Arcadia's main square.

"I lived here when I first moved to Arcadia. And then I bought the building and moved into the full-floor unit on the fourth floor, so this one's yours for the taking," Alex said nonchalantly, leaning against the dining table. "Tell you what, I won't charge you rent until after the New Year. It'll be a lot of work getting all the CDs in the library's music collection digitally transferred and catalogued by the end of the calendar year. But if you work every shift and put in some overtime, I have every confidence it'll get done." Alex's dark brown eyes had narrowed slightly as she added, "And I get the sense that you could use something right now to occupy your time, as well as your mind." The tall, young woman's perceptiveness had caught Margaret by surprise, but Alex simply smiled and held out a set of keys. "Take the weekend to think about it. I'll see you on Monday."

The sun was beginning to set when she arrived back at the house. Standing alone in the foyer, she could hear the evening news playing on the television, but she tuned it out, not wanting to consider the implications of Preacher James's warnings. Jacob and Jenny were coloring together at the dining table under Henry and Lucille's watchful eyes. Fred, Maggie, and Agent Bellamy were gathered around the television in the living room. No one said a word to her when they saw her. It felt like a hard slap across the face to be greeted with coldness by her loved ones, and she had silently walked up the stairs and began to pack her things.

\---

As she had anticipated, the first few days are the hardest to get through. It is dark when she leaves the apartment, and it is dark when she comes home at the end of the day. She finds the silence of the apartment unnerving at times, so she learns how to work the television and the stereo system so that she can have something playing in the background.

On her first day at work, she is greeted by a smiling Robin Campbell, who tells Margaret that she has also gotten a job at the library. And while the information desk is not where Margaret would have expected to find someone as meek as Robin to be working, Alex's perceptiveness is again on point as Robin's shyness melts away in just a few short weeks. Cut off from everything familiar, Margaret is grateful for Robin's company, and the two of them often have lunch together in the staff lounge. Archiving the library's music collection is somewhat tedious, but it allows her to lose herself in the sweeping melodies of Hindemith and Schubert and Tchaikovsky, rather than in her melancholy thoughts.

Some nights, she dreams about Jacob. In her dreams, the two of them meet on the swings in the park, and she mostly just watches as he swings back and forth, listening to his sweet voice telling her how school is going and how his parents are doing. She doesn't know whether her dreams are like the one she experienced with Rachael or if her subconscious mind is simply trying to help her cope with the difficult situation she finds herself in. But she wakes up feeling better than she did when she went to bed, and that will have to be enough for the time being.

The library is closed for Thanksgiving, but Margaret goes into work to distract herself from the fact that she is not spending the day baking apple pies with Jacob. On her way back to her apartment, she passes by Twain's, where the sidewalk sign lets her know that the restaurant is serving a Thanksgiving feast and that all Returned are welcome. She walks into a quiet and mostly empty restaurant, and when Elaine walks up to her, Margaret briefly worries that she will be asked to leave. But Elaine greets her with a smile, handing her a plate and some utensils, and wishes her a Happy Thanksgiving.

A few days before Christmas, her health insurance card arrives in the mail, and Margaret finds herself sitting on a bench outside Maggie's clinic. Her granddaughter does not look particularly pleased to see her, but she invites Margaret, albeit somewhat reluctantly, into her office. There are two things Margaret needs Maggie's help with. First, she asks Maggie to talk to Agent Bellamy and ask him if he can track down the gold locket Margaret had been wearing when she went to the government facility, explaining that the locket had been a gift from Jacob and that it would really mean a lot to her if she could get it back. Second, she asks for Maggie's help in locating a good oncologist in the area. There is a brief flash of concern in her granddaughter's eyes, and Margaret quickly reassures Maggie that she feels fine. It is not easy for her to admit, but she tells Maggie that she is worried—fearful even—that the cancer could always come back. And if it does, she just wants to be as prepared as possible. To her immense relief, Maggie agrees to help her without any hesitation.

But there is one condition.

So Margaret takes a deep breath and tells Maggie about what happened in the park with Barbara, fully aware that her honesty may permanently damage any chance of having a relationship with her granddaughter. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but I'm not sorry that Barbara's gone. I never liked your mother, and I was furious when I learned she had been unfaithful to your father. Your father isn't perfect, but he is my son. And I knew I could never forgive her for what happened to Jacob. So I told her that everyone was better off without her, and she believed it. It was her choice, Maggie, and she chose to give up on life, to let go." She pauses for a moment and tentatively places her hand on Maggie's before continuing. "But I am sorry for hurting you. I can still remember the turmoil in your eyes after it happened. Your eyes reminded me so much of my father's in that moment that it broke my heart. I told you I was sorry, and I meant it. You may never believe me, but I never wanted you to get hurt. And I am fiercely proud of you." She leaves it at that, telling Maggie the same words she had told Barbara: _We can't change the past. Only the future_.

She wakes up to a quiet apartment on Christmas morning. The snow is falling lightly, and as she stands on her balcony with a fresh mug of coffee and looks out at the snow-covered trees in the park, she thinks back to the last thing Brian had said to her: _What is it you want, Margaret?_

When she married Warren, she had had to let go of the shy, carefree girl Margaret Anderson had been and replace her with someone else. For decades, she had lived with a cloud hanging over her, fearful of what she would lose if the truth ever came out. In the end, despite all her efforts, her worst secrets had been exposed and the people she cares about had rejected her. But she is still here. And she realizes that she had always been so focused on protecting the Langston portion of her name that she had let the name she'd been born with slip away. She had let Margaret slip away. But after nearly two months away from the Langstons, it feels as if she has been slowly reclaiming the parts of herself that she had hidden away over the years. And ever since that last night in the Langston house, when she had very nearly given up, the thought of letting go has not crossed her mind again.

She knows now that she doesn't want things to go back to the way they were. What she wants is for things to be better than they'd ever been.

On New Year's Eve, Fred comes by with some belated Christmas leftovers, as well as gifts from her grandchildren. From Jacob, there is a handmade Christmas card and a couple flower seed packets. Jacob had always been a thoughtful boy, and it warms her heart that he remembers how much she enjoys gardening. She will miss not having a garden when spring arrives, but she decides she can always get a flower box for the balcony. Fred hands her a small box, the amusement obvious in his voice when he says, "It's from the M&M's, Maggie and Marty" that she finds herself smiling too. She opens the box, and her eyes fill with tears at the sight of her gold locket in the red and green tissue paper. Maggie has also included the business cards of several oncologists and some handwritten notes about each doctor on the back of the cards. Fred's gift is a cellular phone, and he has already programmed everyone's information into her phone for her. She spends that afternoon reading the user manual, astonished at how much technology has been packaged into such a small object. When she accesses the photo album, her face breaks into a smile. Fred had used the phone to take several photos and videos from Christmas at Henry and Lucille's for her.

As she watches the fireworks from her balcony window that night, she's glad she didn't let go. It feels as if the tide has begun to turn, and she looks forward to the New Year with a hopefulness she hasn't known since childhood.

Just days later, Margaret is assisting Robin at the information desk when her nine-year-old grandson comes running into the lobby. She kneels down and catches Jacob as he runs into her arms. He presses a warm kiss to her cheek, and they exchange smiles as she wishes him a happy birthday. Lucille walks over to them and though she still looks at Margaret with a certain degree of distrust, she extends an olive branch of sorts by casually mentioning that the library might be a good place for Jacob and Jenny to spend a few afternoons a week. She also mentions that Jacob's Little League Baseball team will begin playing their games in the park starting in March.

As they head towards the door, Lucille hands her a business card, and Margaret's heart leaps into her throat when she sees that it's Brian Addison's. He had stopped by the Langston house a few days ago, and after a brief conversation with Henry, he had asked them to give Margaret his card and to let her know that he'd like to apologize to her as well. _In person._

Her mind is distracted the rest of that afternoon, and she catches herself staring at his phone number on multiple occasions. She thinks back to the last time she saw Brian, remembering the ache that had weighed down her heart when she had walked out the door and he hadn't come after her. Now, her heart races with nervous anticipation at the very real possibility of seeing him again.

\---

On a snowy Saturday evening in mid-January, instead of heading back to her apartment after finishing her shift at the library, Margaret allows herself the indulgence of dining out after a productive week. She walks into Twain's and takes a seat at the end of the counter. She's still perusing the menu when Elaine comes over and informs her that her meal has been paid for by the handsome gentleman in the corner booth. Margaret smiles and looks to the back of the restaurant, expecting to see Jacob sitting in the booth with his parents. Instead, the handsome gentleman turns out to be Brian. Her heart is suddenly pounding, and she quickly grabs her coat and heads for the door.

* * *

II. Brian

     It begins as an uneventful business trip to St. Louis, but when the business meetings wrap up ahead of schedule, Brian makes the fateful decision to spend the weekend at his cousin Jeremy's house in nearby Arcadia. Nothing could have prepared him for what he would find when he pulls into the driveway. Standing on the front lawn is a young man who looks identical to the grandfather Brian had never met, the grandfather he had only ever seen in family photographs. The man introduces himself as William Kirk—the same William Kirk who had died in 1935.

Though it's been nearly eighty years since his death, those eighty years feel like only a few minutes to Brian's grandfather. He has returned to find that nothing is as he remembers it, and when Brian shows him the newspaper clippings in one of the family scrapbooks, his grandfather is absolutely furious. His death had been reported as a trucking accident, when in actual fact, Edward Langston had sealed off the varnish room, trapping William and eleven others inside, to prevent the fire from spreading to the rest of the factory. In an eerily calm tone that sends a chill down Brian's spine, his grandfather states that the Langstons need to be punished for their crimes.

Agreeing to help his grandfather in any way he can, Brian spends the next few days in front of his laptop researching the Langstons and the Langston Furniture Company. And when he comes across _her_ picture for the first time, it is as if a tidal wave has suddenly crashed into him. The photo is a small one, a grainy black-and-white photo from an old newspaper article. But none of those things can change the fact that Margaret Langston is the most beautiful woman Brian's ever seen. His elation is short-lived though, and his heart plummets when he realizes that the newspaper article he's looking at is an obituary from 1981. Margaret had passed away the same year he had graduated from business school, her life coming to an end at the same time that his was just beginning.

He sits on the patio deck that evening, staring off into the darkness, unable to wrap his head around the profound feeling of loss he feels for someone he had never even met. _Someone I'll never get to meet_ , he thinks with a dejected sigh. The next morning, he re-commits himself to his grandfather's plan with the renewed fervor of a man trying to bury his grief.

It doesn't take long for Henry Langston to take the bait, and Brian finds himself standing in the kitchen of the Langston house on a sunny morning in early November. Their business meeting is interrupted by the most beautiful voice Brian has ever heard, and when he turns around, he is staring into the pale blue eyes of Margaret Langston. The sensation of being slammed into by a tidal wave returns, and he cannot believe his eyes. _Or his luck._ He had caught himself staring at her picture several times over the past few days, but to see her with his own eyes completely overwhelms him. The formidable Margaret Langston is a petite, slender woman with the most breathtaking blue eyes and flawless skin. She extends her hand in greeting, and when his hand makes contact with her soft skin, he feels as if he's been struck by lightning. Over the years, he had heard his friends and family describe this feeling, but he had never quite understood what they meant, had never experienced it for himself until this moment: the feeling of being deeply panicked and deeply calm at the same time. As he's walking beside her after his meeting with Henry, he somehow summons the courage to ask her to join him for dinner that evening. And she says yes.

When Margaret walks into the Arcadia Country Club that night, it's as if he's watching everything unfold in slow motion. She looks positively stunning, and he is rendered speechless by the color of her eyes. This morning, they had appeared pale blue in the bright sunlight; tonight, in the soft glow of candlelight, there is a hint of Brunswick green to them—the same shade of Brunswick green as the dress she's wearing. The dress that tightly hugs every inch of her perfect figure. He can't tear his eyes away from her that evening, and he hangs on her every word. When she apologizes for monopolizing the conversation, he assures her that she is not boring him, very nearly blurting out that he could gladly listen to her voice all evening. In fact, he wants to know more about her. She seems surprised to hear him say that and tells him that she's not very interesting. And though he's been taught that a gentleman never disagrees with a lady, he has never met anyone who fascinates him the way she does.

"I think you are," he tells her, and her reaction makes him wonder if she's ever been told that before. Her eyes lock onto his in a way that he can only describe as flirtatious, and he knows that this is one of those rare moments in life when everything has come together perfectly, as if the entire universe has somehow conspired in his favor.

Every second of that evening feels both new and familiar. He invites her back to the house for coffee, and when he sees her smiling at him from her seat on the leather sofa, there is a split second when it feels as if he's being offered a glimpse into the future, one that feels possible and fits like a well-tailored suit. He can't stop smiling as he prepares the coffee in the kitchen.

But then he hears her gathering her things and heading for the door. She assures him that he hasn't done anything wrong and that she's had a lovely evening, but she hurriedly rushes out the door without offering any explanation.

He's still standing in the foyer in stunned disbelief when his grandfather emerges from the study, angrily demanding to know why Brian had invited Margaret to the house. He quickly tries to assure his grandfather that their cover hasn't been blown.

"You better hope not. You could have blown this whole damn thing. Don't forget whose side you're on, young man," his grandfather says to him in the most menacing tone.

If he's being completely honest, Brian finds himself wavering in his commitment to his grandfather's plan; his immediate concern is keeping Margaret safe from anything William might have planned. He tosses and turns all night, feeling trapped between wanting to help his grandfather and desperately wanting to see Margaret again. She has awakened something deep within him, and he feels his life veering off the familiar path.

The next morning, the doorbell rings and Brian's heart skips a beat when he sees that it's Margaret.

"You didn't mention you were related to William Kirk," Margaret says with contempt in her eyes and in her voice. He tries to keep the conversation casual, but the coldness in her eyes leaves no doubt that she knows he's up to something—something that would harm her family and is therefore unforgivable.

He is rooted to the spot as everything comes crashing down around him in a deafening roar. He has lived a charmed life, and he knows it. But everything he thought he knew had disintegrated a week ago. Now, there is a clear demarcation to his life, and it all centers around the moment he had discovered Margaret's picture. It was the first time he had ever experienced love at first sight, only to find out that the woman who had taken his breath away was a woman he would never get to meet. But then a few days later, Margaret had walked into the kitchen, and it was as if his world had gone from black-and-white to ultra-high definition. He had been granted one nearly perfect evening with her, where time had stood still just long enough for their two lives to intersect. And now this beautiful woman, whose smile had the ability to make him experience every emotion as if for the first time, would vanish from his life, leaving him to grasp in vain at nothing but memories.

It feels like the universe has waited over fifty-seven years to play a cruel trick on him. Temporarily blinded by the anger that is coursing like a poison in his veins, he wishes he had never come to Arcadia, that he had never met her. Something inside him shuts down, and he can no longer bear to be in the same room as her.

"What is it you want, Margaret?" he demands, regretting the bitterness of his tone almost immediately when Margaret's eyes take on a slate gray quality, and an emotion he can't identify flashes across her face.

"Kill the deal. And stay the hell away from my family," she says, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

She walks past him, and the smell of her perfume settles heavy and sweet in his chest. Now, it is not anger that is causing his blood to boil, but desire. He wants to tangle his fingers in her silky hair as their lips come crashing together. He wants to fall backwards onto the leather sofa, pulling her with him and onto his lap, mold his hands to her hips and feel her fingers curl into his hair, their tongues battling each other's for dominance the entire time. He lets his imagination run wild with the idea of flipping her flat onto her back, pinning her arms above her head, and tracking the scent of her perfume—from the inside of her slender wrist, along her arm, and over her shoulder—until his lips locate the pulse point on her neck. With a single handshake, it is as if the textures of her skin have been imprinted on his palm. And if he is certain of only one thing right then, it is this: that his hands will continue to burn with desire until he feels her skin against his own again. He wants her with a desperation he has never felt for any other woman before.

She gives him one last look as she stands at the open front door, but Brian cannot form any words. He doesn't know what to say to prevent Margaret from walking out the door and out of his life. The door closes softly behind her, and his world slowly begins to desaturate.

\---

He sits on the back porch of his mother's house the Friday after Thanksgiving and watches his grandnieces and grandnephews as they chase the dog through all the leaf piles in the backyard. Their peals of laughter bring a huge smile to his face, and he realizes it's the first time he has actually smiled in the weeks since he left Arcadia.

"There's that winning smile I love so much," he hears his mother say as she takes a seat next to him on the wicker loveseat. "I can't remember ever seeing you looking quite so weary, my dear. When I called your office on Monday to find out if you'd be coming up for Thanksgiving, Erica said you've been working from home ever since you got back from St. Louis. You want to tell your dear mother what's going on?"

His smile vanishes immediately. He knows he should talk to someone, but he doesn't know how to explain to his mother what he doesn't understand himself. He doesn't want to lie to her, but how could he tell her that the William Kirk he met in Arcadia had not been a good person, but rather a man who had been consumed by his rage and fueled by his desire for vengeance?

"I met someone, Mom . . . and I really screwed it up," he says, shaking his head. He explains that the reports of people returning from the dead that have dominated the news over the past few weeks are true and that the phenomenon began in Arcadia. Though he doesn't lie to his mother about what happened, he doesn't divulge any specifics about William. His mother had never really talked about him, though Brian doesn't know whether it's because the topic is a painful one for her or if it's simply because she has no real memory of her father. Not wishing to speak ill of his grandfather, Brian tells his mother that he had been approached by a Returned man who had died in the same trucking accident that had taken William Kirk's life. But the death of the factory workers had been no accident, and after the Returned man revealed what had actually happened at the factory on that fateful day in 1935, Brian had agreed to help the man get his revenge against the Langstons.

"I was angry when I found out what had really happened to my grandfather, so I agreed to help the Returned man. I knew he wanted the Langstons' money, but I foolishly thought he cared about justice too. The plan was for me to pose as a potential investor and to lure Henry Langston into a bad business deal. But when I met with Henry, the way he spoke with such pride about his family and the factory . . . It was obvious he had no idea what the Langstons had done. On top of that, the factory had closed in the 1980s, not long after Henry's only son died. The boy—his name's Jacob—he was only eight years old when he drowned in the river behind their house, Mom. And I thought, maybe the Langstons had already been punished enough. I explained all of this to the Returned man, but he was determined to go forward. It didn't matter to him that Jacob had died or that the Langstons no longer had the wealth and influence they once had or that all the people who were responsible were long gone. He had accused the Langstons of being greedy, but he was just as bad as they were. He had no interest in getting justice for those twelve factory workers at all—it was always just about money. I told him that things had gone far enough and that I wasn't going to help him swindle innocent people. He called me a disgrace, a traitor," Brain says, his jaw tensing at the memory of having those offensive words thrown at him. "That was the last thing he ever said to me."

"He's wrong, Brian. You did the right thing. I'm proud of you," Rebecca Addison says, gently squeezing his hand. "So, how does your mystery woman fit into all of this?"

"Your father worked for Langston Furniture when Jacob Anderson was the head foreman. He had a daughter, Margaret, who was a few years older than you. Did you ever meet her?"

"I don't remember much from back then, my dear. I probably only went to the factory once or twice, but I remember seeing the same girl there each time—a girl with very lovely blue eyes."

Brian feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That sounds about right," he says.

"Why do you ask about her?"

"Because that girl you met all those years ago? Her name's Margaret Langston now. She's Henry Langston's mother."

"Is that right?" his mother asks cheerfully. "I can't say I'm surprised those two ended up together."

"What do you mean?" he asks, his brow knit with confusion.

"Well, she and Benjamin Langston were always running around the factory together. Thick as thieves, those two."

"Wait. _Benjamin_ Langston?" Brian had come across that name only a handful of times while researching the Langstons, but there had been no mention of him since the 1940s, and Brian was under the assumption that the young Army captain had been killed in action. "No, Margaret was married to Warren Langston, the eldest son."

"My goodness! Warren was the same age as your grandfather!" his mother exclaims, her eyes wide with shock. Rebecca searches her youngest son's face for a moment. She can see the sadness in his brown eyes, but there is also an unmistakable glimmer to them. "Is Margaret the reason why you look like you haven't eaten or slept in weeks? The reason you're all tangled up?"

He gives her a small smile and nods his head slowly. "She died in 1981, when she was just fifty-four years old. But then she came back. And I met her. And she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Smart, loyal, so confident and yet so vulnerable at the same time. And her smile! Every second I was with her, I felt so panicked and so calm—panicked that I'd say the wrong thing when I was trying to impress her, and calm because she made me feel like everything was possible." He lets out a deep sigh. "I felt like we could build a great life together. I've never experienced anything like it before, Mom."

"Oh, my dear boy!" his mother exclaims, the joy so apparent in her eyes that it pains Brian to have to give her a sad smile and shake his head.

"No, Mom. Nothing ever really started . . . and yet, it's all over now. Somehow, she found out about the Returned man's scheme to harm her family and about my involvement. She was so angry with me the last time we saw each other, and I don't think she'll ever forgive me. I wish I could say that I backed out of the plan because it was the right thing to do. But, honestly? I did it because she told me to. Because it was what she wanted, and I want her to have everything she wants . . . even though I knew it meant I'd never see her again." He scrubs his hands over his face, wishing he could forget the sight of her walking out the door. He can feel his temper rising again. "The entire flight back to L.A., I kept telling myself that I had only spent one day with her. One day! With someone I was never even supposed to meet! I keep telling myself that I'll get over it. But I can't stop thinking about her."

Everything about his life in California has lost its lustre. In the past, he would put in long hours at the office any time something was bothering him. Now, he's grateful for his senior partner status, as it allows him the freedom to spend his days however he wants, no questions asked. He's felt absolutely miserable since he left Arcadia. Every evening, he would sit on his apartment terrace at sunset, but the once-incredible views of the city's skyline could no longer bring a smile to his face. He had spent almost every day of the past two weeks aimlessly wandering between his favorite places in L.A., but nothing had eased the tension inside. When he had decided to get out of the apartment and grab an espresso at Stumptown Coffee early one morning, there had been a woman in a Brunswick green dress standing in line ahead of him. He could smell traces of Margaret's perfume as he wandered through the Central Garden at the Getty. Standing at the end of the pier in Santa Monica, the vast blue ocean had only reminded him of Margaret's incredible eyes. Even a strenuous hike up to Griffith Park hadn't done the trick. He had lain in bed that night, trying to focus his mind on the physical ache he felt in every muscle, but thoughts of her still found a way through. He has had no appetite and has hardly slept in weeks. On the rare occasions when he had managed to fall asleep, he would dream about her—about stopping her from walking out the door that morning, about how the bright sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window would bring out all the shades of chestnut and auburn in her hair, about watching her blue eyes change colors as he uses his mouth to explore every perfect inch of her.

Just days before Thanksgiving, he had been seriously considering spending the holiday alone. But the thought of seeing his family gathered together in his childhood home was a comforting one, and he knew how much it would mean to his mother if he came up for a few days. He wasn't in the right state of mind to be driving from Los Angeles to Seattle, but he had wanted to indulge his need for solitude a little while longer. The scenic drive up the coast had been therapeutic, and when he arrived at his mother's house, knowing he had made someone else happy had helped loosen some of the knots in his shoulders.

\---

The sun is setting when they light the fire pit in the backyard for the kids to make s'mores. Everyone is gathered around the fire, but Brian stands off to the side. He hears his mother walking towards him, and he makes an effort to smile as she slides her arm through his.

"You know, you'll need a place to stay when you go back to Arcadia," she says, matter-of-factly. "And since you'll be staying there for a long time, I'm sure Jeremy would be happy to sell the house to you for a very reasonable price. I know how much it meant to Charlie to have a house in the town where we were born, but it's not fair to Jeremy to have to take care of it from all the way out in Phoenix."

Brian's expression has grown serious again, and his mother takes his hand in hers, telling him, "If you're worried about how the rest of the family would feel, don't be. It was a long time ago, and we can't change the past. It's so easy to think our lives would be perfect if that one thing had or hadn't happened to us, but it's wishful thinking, Brian. Of course I wonder what it would have been like if my father hadn't died, but look how wonderfully everything worked out for us. I can't imagine what it was like for your Grandma Lily, being a widow with two young children at the age of twenty-five. But she didn't let her grief destroy her. She took me and Charlie out here to Seattle and started over. And it led her to a man named Theodore Walsh. He absolutely adored your Grandma, and he adopted me and Charlie—made the four of us a family. William Kirk will always be my father, but I didn't know him. Grandpa Teddy was my dad. He loved me and Charlie like we were his own, and he was the one who walked me down the aisle on my wedding day."

She reaches up and gently holds his face in her hands. "Life's nothing without that spark, Brian. This lovesick feeling . . . when it happens, it never really goes away. Maybe the reason why Margaret's so angry with you is because she likes you as much as you like her. Maybe she's just as heartbroken as you are."

For the first time since he left Arcadia, he re-experiences the sensation of being slammed into by a tidal wave. He has no doubts about the way he feels about Margaret, but he had never allowed himself to hope that a woman as extraordinary as her would ever choose to be with someone as ordinary as him. He had been paralyzed with doubt the last time he saw her, letting her walk out the door and out of his life, because he had been so certain that the sparks he had felt between them the previous evening had been entirely one-sided.

"Just be honest with her. And keep being honest with her. She deserves that much. As hard as it's been for the two of us to learn the truth about what really happened, just imagine how difficult it's been for Margaret—if she's known the truth since she was just a little girl and had to keep it all a secret for so long. I don't think anyone has suffered from that fire as much as that poor girl has," his mother tells him in a sorrowful voice. "But, it's like you said: the people who were responsible for what happened are long gone and the Langstons have already been through enough. It's time to let go of the past. The only thing that matters to us Addisons remains unchanged: we just want you to be happy, my dear."

A smile brightens his handsome face, and he's about to hug his mother when she stops him with a smirk.

"Can I offer you a bit of dating advice first?" she asks, patting his bearded cheek. "You might want to reacquaint yourself with some Gillette products before you go after your lovely lady. As popular as this look is with the locals, I imagine the odds will be more in your favor if you don't look quite so unkempt when you come a-courting."

The gentle teasing in her grin and in her voice makes him chuckle, and he hugs his mother tightly, lifting her slightly off the ground and earning himself a playful slap, before the two of them walk arm in arm to join the rest of the Walsh-Addison clan gathered together around the fire.

\---

He walks into Twain's on a snowy Saturday afternoon in mid-January and slides into the corner booth at the back of the restaurant. The coffee isn't great, but he appreciates the free refills and the fact that the restaurant is mostly empty. Looking out the window at the swirling snow and the bare trees of the park, he still can't quite believe that he's now a resident of Arcadia, Missouri. After growing up in Seattle and having lived in California since college, he never would have pictured himself living so far away from the ocean. But there are things about Arcadia that no other place can offer, and he would gladly trade a lifetime of waking up to the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean for just one more look into Margaret's ever-changing blue eyes.

By the end of the Thanksgiving weekend, he had written his cousin a check for the full asking price on Jeremy's pickup truck and on the house in Arcadia. As soon as he got back to Los Angeles, he had put in a request to be transferred to his company's St. Louis office, and his broker had almost immediately found a buyer for his apartment. He had enthusiastically packed up his life in California and set out on the nearly thirty hour drive to Arcadia a few days before Christmas. Somewhere outside Albuquerque, a song he hadn't heard in years had come on the radio.

 _So I packed my car and I headed east_  
_Where I felt your fire and a sweet release_  
_There's a fire in these hills that's coming down_  
_And I don't know much but I found you here_  
_And I cannot wait another year_

It had felt like a reassurance from the universe, the rediscovering of true north after too many weeks of drifting.

His first night back in Arcadia was the first time he had gotten a good night's sleep in over a month. On Christmas morning, he had stood on the snow-covered patio deck with a mug of coffee and felt calm for the first time in weeks. The house is his to do with as he pleases, and he had initially only planned to stay here until he found a new place. A part of him is eager to live somewhere other than the house where he and his grandfather had exchanged harsh words with each other, the house that is inextricably linked to the memory of Margaret walking out the door. But, perhaps out of loyalty to his Uncle Charlie and the prospect of turning the large backyard into something really beautiful, he had decided he would at least try to build a new life and new memories in this house.

He had paid a visit to the Langston house a few days after the New Year. Henry Langston did not appear the least bit pleased to find him standing on their front porch, but he had invited Brian in and listened to his apology. He hadn't lied last autumn when he had told Henry that there is tremendous investment potential in the factory's land and buildings. But Henry, who appears to now know the truth about the fire in 1935, has washed his hands of the place, content to let it continue in its abandoned state. Afterwards, as he was leaving the Langston house, Brian had noticed Jacob Langston spying on him from the top of the stairs. When he had met Jacob last November, he had gotten the feeling that the young boy knew a lot more than he let on. On this afternoon, the look on Jacob's face had been one of curiosity, rather than suspicion, and he had even returned Brian's smile with one of his own. Standing on the front porch with Henry and Lucille, he had asked after Margaret, and Henry's jaw had tensed at the mention of his mother's name. Thankfully, Lucille had graciously stepped in, offering to pass his business card along to Margaret. 

Almost two weeks have passed, and there has been no word from Margaret. But he remains hopeful. To know she is so nearby leaves him feeling slightly out of breath, a swirling mixture of agony and euphoria. Every second since he's been back in Arcadia, he feels like he's on the verge of something—as if every moment is teeming with the possibility of being _the_ moment when Margaret will walk back into his life.

And on a snowy afternoon just a few weeks into a new year, the longed-for moment finally arrives.

Elaine is refilling his coffee, and just when he looks up to say thanks, Margaret walks into the restaurant. Her cheeks are full of color from the cold and there are snowflakes in her hair, and Brian can literally feel his breath being taken away. Had time and distance made the heart grow fonder, or had the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen become even more stunning? He can feel his heart fluttering like a compass needle as he asks Elaine to let the woman at the end of the counter know that he'd like to buy her dinner. Even from the other side of the restaurant, the smile that forms on Margaret's face is the brightest thing in the room. But when her eyes finally land on him, that bright smile, clearly intended for someone else, fades away in an instant.

She blinks her eyes rapidly in dismay, and an almost anguished look flashes across her face. Every sound becomes muffled, as if he's been pulled under by the tidal wave, when he realizes that she's gathering her things and making a beeline for the door. Through the window, he watches her pull on her coat and make her way into the park. A horrible tightness forms in his chest, and he feels his entire body burning up with panic. He knows he does not have the strength to witness the unbearable moment that looms only a few seconds away—the moment when Margaret will disappear into the gusting snow, leaving him staring into a blindingly white and blank space.

He turns his head away so rapidly that he's momentarily stunned from the whiplash. He looks down at all the things spread out on the table—phone, keys, wallet, business proposals, coffee mug—and blinks in confusion. Everything looks and feels out of place. It's the third time now that he's watched Margaret walk out the door, and that realization snaps him back to reality.

Now, his heart pounds with the boldness of a man standing at the starting line of the rest of his life. He should have gone after Margaret the last time, should have had her in his life these past two months. He can never get those two months back, but he's not about to make the same mistake again.

 _Life's nothing without that spark_.

He leaves everything on the table, not even bothering to grab his coat, and runs after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics are from "Nothing Left to Lose" by Mat Kearney


	2. Something to Hold Onto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Through some rare and awesome trick of the universe, their lives had been running parallel to each other's ever since last autumn. Their paths had intersected but had never quite merged into one . . . until now."

> In every childhood there is a door that closes . . . only real love waits while we journey through our grief. That is the real trustworthiness between people. In all the epics, in all the stories that have lasted through many lifetimes, it is always the same truth: love must wait for wounds to heal. It is this waiting we must do for each other, not with a sense of mercy, or in judgment, but as if forgiveness were a rendezvous. How many are willing to wait for another in this way? Very few.
> 
> —Anne Michaels, _The Winter Vault_

 

     The snow is falling lightly, and as Margaret enters the park, she mentally chastises herself for the way she had practically run out of the restaurant like a silly schoolgirl when she saw Brian tonight. The searing blush of embarrassment lessens the farther she walks from the restaurant; in its stead, a chill comes over her as she frets over the answer to the question that has suddenly begun to nag at her: _Brian hadn't come after her the last time, so what in the world makes her think this time would be any different?_

She knows that in a town as small as Arcadia she wouldn't have been able to avoid running into him forever, but she had not been prepared to run into him this evening. Though if she's being honest with herself, she would probably never feel fully prepared to see him again, not when the recollections of how unpleasantly everything had unraveled in November still feel as sharp as ever. Adjusting to her new life away from the Langstons is still an ongoing and often difficult process, but she had adjusted: she has a job she enjoys with co-workers she likes, she has her routines, and she has slowly re-established relationships with her family. But just as things were settling into place, Brian had come back to Arcadia, and she feels like her world is slightly off-balance again.

She startles when she feels a hand on her shoulder, coming to a complete and sudden stop, and very nearly colliding with Brian's lanky frame when she turns around. His arms reach out and catch her without any hesitation.

"Are you okay?" he asks with genuine concern in his voice.

His warm hands gently cup her elbows, and an intense heat flushes through Margaret's entire body. She's embarrassed by her clumsiness and also very aware of Brian's proximity. Not only can she see his breath in the cold January air, she can feel its warmth on her cheek and smell the bold aroma of the French Roast he had been sampling just minutes ago. She quickly recovers her footing and fights off the shiver that unexpectedly strikes when she disentangles herself from Brian's steady arms and his warm hands fall away. Neither of them says anything as they pause to catch their breath, but the way Brian looks at her like he can't quite believe she's real causes Margaret to feel strangely hopeful.

"I, um . . . I wanted to apologize for what happened last November," he tells her. "I was just trying to help William in whatever way I could. But after meeting Henry and hearing the way he talked about your family and how he really wanted to get Langston Furniture back up and running again, I changed my mind. I should never have let things go as far as they did, but I didn't know how to stop what was happening. I didn't want to hurt your family. I mean, it wasn't easy to learn the truth about what really happened all those years ago, and I suppose some part of me will always be angry about it. But it was a long time ago, and we can't change the past. And your family's already been through enough. I'm sorry Henry had to find out the truth the way he did. I want you to know that."

The words come out in a rush, and he wishes he could have offered her a more eloquent apology. She takes a few seconds to let his words sink in, and though she appreciates what he'd said, somehow it is not enough.

"Is that all?" Margaret asks him, holding her chin at a somewhat defiant angle and somehow managing to keep her voice far steadier than she actually feels.

Her words almost cause his heart to plummet, but only almost. Because she hadn't asked the question in an angry or annoyed tone; instead, there is a hint of something else in both her voice and in the way she is looking at him. Her eyes are a startling mixture of watery blue and slate gray and sage green. And it dawns on him that he's seen this same look in her eyes before.

Suddenly, he's standing in the living room on that sunny November morning again, with Margaret looking up at him from her seat in front of the fireplace. At the time, he had been so preoccupied with how William was likely eavesdropping on their conversation from the study that he hadn't fully grasped everything that had been communicated in the split second when Margaret's eyes had fallen and a tight smile had flashed across her face. He had told her that his cousin would be coming back to the house at any moment and that he didn't want to be an impolite houseguest. And though he had said the words in the hopes of getting Margaret out of the house and away from a vengeance-obsessed William as quickly as possible, it didn't change the fact that he had lied to her. And it didn't change the fact that Margaret had known he was lying to her.

He hadn't realized the damage he'd done in that moment, but he's paying attention now. Margaret's eyes change colors with her moods, and he now knows what she had felt the last time they saw each other: he hadn't only disappointed her—he'd hurt her.

The realization knocks the wind out of him. The beautiful woman he hasn't been able to stop thinking about is standing just mere inches away from him, anxiously awaiting an answer. Looking at her now, Brian remembers what his mother had said to him at Thanksgiving: _Maybe the reason why Margaret's so angry with you is because she likes you as much as you like her. Maybe she's just as heartbroken as you are._

He had apologized for his role in nearly pulling off a business deal made in bad faith, but that was the only thing he'd apologized for. He replays her question in his mind, and the vulnerability in her voice and in her eyes is suddenly clear as day. _She thinks that's the only reason why I wanted to see her_ , he realizes, as a bone-chilling gust of wind cuts through the trees.

Margaret takes her hands out of her pockets and pulls her coat tighter, and Brian notices the difference immediately. She's no longer wearing her wedding ring.

And he dares to hope.

He's trying to work out what to say to her, but his lack of response causes Margaret's shoulders to drop in defeat. She blinks her eyes rapidly and presses her lips together tightly in a gesture that Brian immediately commits to memory. She's deeply upset and trying to not to let it show. It's subtle, but he notices the way she shakes her head dejectedly as she begins to turn away from him, and he feels the panic rising in his chest and throat. He's down to his last strike, and as miserable as the past two months have been for him, what awaits him will be far worse if he doesn't swing for the fences now.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," he calls out.

She can't quite bring herself to look at his face, but the sound of his voice ringing out so clearly in the quiet park causes her to freeze in her tracks.

He cautiously bridges the small distance between them, and Margaret can hear the sounds of his deep breaths, can almost feel the warmth radiating off him.

"I meant what I said at dinner that night. I want to know more about _you_ , because I think you're interesting. And I felt that way even before I met you." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I asked you out to dinner because I wanted to ask you out to dinner. That was never part of the plan. _You_ were the one thing I never planned on," he says, his voice unwavering. "And you're the one thing about last November I wouldn't change."

She looks anywhere but at him, but he can see that she's shivering. He had left his coat back at the restaurant, but the frigid night air hardly even affects him. Getting Margaret out of the cold suddenly becomes his only concern.

"Look, you haven't had dinner. Just come back to the restaurant, okay? I won't pay for your meal if you don't want me to, and you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to. But you can ask me anything, and I won't lie to you," he tells her.

He pauses, and his mother's words come rushing back to him: _Just be honest with her. And keep being honest with her. She deserves that much_.

"I'm so sorry for hurting you. And I promise that I'll never lie to you again, Margaret."

She had lived a life so defined by secrets and deceptions that the openness and sincerity in his promise—especially when he had said her name—overwhelms her nearly to the point of tears. She had never disliked her name, even if there were times when she felt there was something distant and formal-sounding about it. But her name had sounded almost hymn-like when Brian had said it tonight—with such breathless reverence, as if the entire weight of everything true and beautiful and good in the universe was contained within those two syllables.

Slowly, she raises her eyes to meet Brian's. He towers over her, but in the amber glow of the nearby lamp post, she can clearly see the same warmth and fascination in his eyes now that she had seen in them last fall.

"Will you have dinner with me?" he asks nervously. And in a voice barely above a whisper, he adds, "Please."

She studies his face for a moment, and she can't help thinking that there is a calmness to him now, as if he has finally gotten a good night's sleep. He looks younger and even more handsome than he did in November. The way he stands with his hands in his pockets and a hopeful smile on his full lips only adds to his already considerable charm. There is something boyish about him, and it reminds her of something—or perhaps of someone—from so many years ago. There are still lingering traces of doubt in Margaret's beautiful blue eyes, but she accepts his invitation.

They walk side by side through the snowy park back to Twain's, and she can feel his eyes watching her the entire time. When they arrive at the restaurant, Brian holds the door open for her, and Margaret smiles at him—shyly, but brightly. He takes a deep breath, and the scent of her perfume calms the storms inside him. And he smiles too.

* * *

     Though she's had his business card for well over a week and had memorized his phone number almost immediately, it's not until the next afternoon that Margaret finally dials his number for the first time.

She and Brian had gradually eased into conversation over dinner last night. He'd told her about transferring to his company's St. Louis office and how he was working from home most days, and she'd mentioned her job at the library. They had kept the conversation light and had paid for their meals separately, but neither of them had seemed particularly anxious to leave the restaurant right away. So they had lingered in the corner booth for one last cup of coffee. As she stirred a packet of brown sugar into her coffee, she could feel Brian staring at her. Her first instinct had been to put her defenses up, but when she looked up, she'd been greeted by Brian's soft smile and the words, "Your hair's shorter than I remember." His words had certainly caught her by surprise, and her eyes had darted away as she self-consciously tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. She had cut her hair just a little over a week ago, and though she hadn't done anything drastic, at collarbone-length it's the shortest her hair's ever been. That Brian had noticed such a seemingly minor detail both flattered and bewildered her. And those dueling feelings had only grown stronger when he'd quickly added, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to sound like a criticism. It looks beautiful. You always look . . ." 

He had smiled sheepishly, but that small moment had gone a long way in winning her over. He knew she was no longer living at the Langston house and that he still had a long way to go when it came to gaining Margaret's trust, but he still offered to drive her home at the end of the evening. She had politely declined, of course, and they'd said good night in front of Twain's, with him telling her that she could call him any time and that he hoped to see her again.

She goes about her Sunday routines, trying to distract her mind from daydreaming about Brian and his smiles. By early afternoon, she finds herself nervously pacing the living room as she dials his number to ask him whether his offer from last fall to head into town and have coffee together still stands. And she can practically hear the smile in his voice when he asks her, "Where and when?"

She walks into Common Grounds for the first time that Sunday afternoon. And in a scene that becomes familiar as they continue to meet and as the small coffee shop near the library quickly becomes one of their favorite places in Arcadia, Brian is already sitting at a small table by the window and waiting with a smile.

For the first couple of weeks, she enjoys sampling the extensive selection of teas and coffees on the menu and is more than happy to let Brian do most of the talking. She's impressed when she finds out that Brian had attended Stanford University for college and business school, but perhaps even more impressed by how modest he is when it comes to discussing his accomplishments. 

"Growing up, all I wanted to do was play basketball and attend the Air Force Academy one day. I wanted to be a pilot like my uncle. But that just wasn't in the cards," he says, pointing at his glasses.

Initially, it's the differences between them that intrigue her: she had been an only child, whereas Brian is the youngest of three sons; she had grown up in a small town in a landlocked state, whereas Brian had always lived close to the Pacific Ocean. She had never had the chance to travel anywhere, had never set foot outside Arcadia, but she travels to the beaches of Bainbridge Island, the quadrangles of Stanford University, and the amusement rides of Santa Monica through Brian's memories and the photos he shows her on his phone. She tells him that Arcadia must seem extremely boring by comparison, but his response brings a blush to her cheeks.

"It certainly has its charms," he says, with a smile that manages to be flirtatious and sincere at the same time and with his eyes lingering on her face.

\---

It had begun casually and always on Margaret's schedule—coffee at Common Grounds on her way into work, a casual meal at the bar at Twain's on her lunch break. She doesn't know whether to find it comforting or alarming just how seamlessly their lives seem to fit together. Sometimes, she catches herself looking at Brian and wondering if he is actually rearranging his schedule so that he never misses an opportunity to see her. And that thought excites and scares her at the same time.

But something changes between them the next month, or perhaps it's something inside Margaret that changes when she watches Brian interacting with Jacob. In early February, the library hosts a children's workshop, and Jacob and Jenny come by after school to make Valentine's Day cards. Margaret is absolutely delighted to see her grandson and his friend and is showing them how to make pressed flowers when Brian walks into the library. Just as Brian finishes asking her if she'd like to go out for coffee later tonight, Jacob walks over to where they're standing together. He surprises them both by saying hello to Brian and asking if Brian would like to make Valentine's Day cards with them. He looks at Margaret, silently seeking her approval, and Margaret gives Brian a shy smile, telling him that they'd be delighted if he could join them. And Jacob surprises them again by grabbing them each by the hand and excitedly leading them over to the arts and crafts table. Margaret sits with Jenny and helps her with the cards she's making for Maggie and Lucille, but her eyes drift across the small table to Jacob and Brian on multiple occasions. The two of them get along remarkably well, and the smile never leaves Brian's face as he answers any question Jacob asks him and listens to him talking enthusiastically about his Little League team.

When it's time for the children to go home, the four of them walk out of the library together. She and Brian stand together, watching Jacob and Jenny climbing on one of the sculptures in front of the library.

"He's quite a special boy," Brian says, and he loves the way her eyes sparkle and the way she smiles at any mention of Jacob.

"He is. He's perfect," she says.

"He reminds me of his grandmother in that regard," he replies, smiling in that flirtatious, yet sincere way of his.

She looks at him—all soft eyes and soft smiles—and is genuinely touched by what he's said. "Thank you, Brian. I think that may be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

The children come running back over to where she and Brian are standing. Jacob reminds Brian that his team will start their season next month, and Brian promises that he'll come to every game he can. He tells Margaret that he'll see her later tonight and waves goodbye to Jacob and Jenny.

"He seems different from last fall, like he's not angry anymore," Jacob says. "I like him. He knows a lot about baseball, and he has a really cool truck."

Margaret smiles at that and kneels down to give Jacob a hug. "My special boy," she whispers into his messy brown hair, as Lucille arrives to pick up the children. She looks up at Jacob and Jenny and tells them both how much she enjoyed spending time with them this afternoon.

Jacob grins widely before pressing a warm kiss to her cheek and says, "I had a great time too. I'll tell dad you said hello. Good night, Grandma. I love you!"

She arrives at the coffee shop before Brian does and as she waits at the table she has begun to think of as "their" table, she realizes just how much she's looking forward to seeing him. Suddenly, anything that happens in her life, no matter how mundane, becomes something she wants to tell Brian about—whether it's about something as wonderful as the latest drawing Jacob had made for her or as uninteresting as how she needs to go grocery shopping after work. His attentiveness still continues to both flatter and bewilder her. She smiles more now, not only when she's with him, but also whenever the thought of him crosses her mind—something that has been happening with alarming frequency as of late. Brian's the most hassle-free person she's ever met, and as selfish as it makes her feel sometimes, it feels nice to begin her day with someone who always looks genuinely happy to see her. But tonight is the first time that she's made time in her schedule to see him, and she can't keep herself from smiling at the thought of beginning and ending her day with him.

There's a soft tapping at the window, and she turns to see Brian standing outside, smiling at her like he's been looking forward to seeing her all day. She smiles and touches her fingertips to the glass. And for a brief second, it's as if the barrier between them no longer exists, as if she can actually feel his fingers lightly dancing with hers.

Though she had long since given up trying to deny her attraction towards him, she's continually surprised by her ever-deepening feelings for Brian. The next week, Brian has to go out of town on business, and just the thought of not seeing him for three days throws her into a state of near melancholy. They meet for an early lunch at Twain's before he leaves for the airport, and Margaret finds herself staring at the clock, hoping against hope that time would stand still. He hasn't even left yet, and somehow she already misses him. He walks with her back to the library after lunch, and when he tentatively reaches for her hand, she doesn't pull away. They're both dreading the idea of not seeing each other tomorrow and neither of them wants to say the word "goodbye". So instead, they opt for "Safe travels, Brian" and "See you soon, Margaret."

He calls her every night after dinner while he's away, and listening to his voice as she curls up on the sofa tides her over to the weekend.

\---

When she walks into the library on Saturday morning, Alex and Robin are whispering conspiratorially at the information desk. She says hello and comments on the lovely vase of tulips sitting at the far end of the desk, which causes Robin to giggle.

"Well, I'm sure a certain Mr. Brian Addison will be very pleased to hear that, considering he certainly picked the right flowers for you," Alex chimes in, handing her the card that had been included with the flower delivery. Margaret takes the card from Alex, her expression a mix of both embarrassment and confusion. "They're variegated tulips," Alex explains. "The type of flowers you give someone when you want to tell them that they have beautiful eyes. Pretty good choice if you're about to ask a woman for a date."

In a dreamlike state, Margaret walks to the end of the desk and looks at the flowers in greater detail. She reads Brian's card, and though a simple message wishing her a Happy Valentine's Day might not seem like much to anyone else, she sniffles softly as she slips it into the breast pocket of her coat. It's the first time anyone's ever given her flowers for Valentine's Day.

And sure enough, Brian has just returned from his business trip and is waiting for her outside the library when she leaves work that afternoon. He lets out a sigh when he sees her, the smile on her face telling him that she had gotten the flowers and that maybe she's missed him as much as he's missed her.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he says softly. She smiles the way she did when they'd first met, and it's love at first sight all over again for him. She thanks him for the flowers, and he can see the deep appreciation, but also the vulnerability in her eyes. He smiles warmly and asks if she has any plans for this evening, and when she shakes her head, he grabs a bright yellow blanket from the back of his truck and shyly offers her his arm.

They walk into the park, and Margaret's face breaks into a smile when they arrive at the outdoor ice rink. They head up to the bleachers, and Brian gently drapes the yellow blanket around her shoulders before sitting down next to her. For the next few minutes, they sit in silence and watch all the people skating under the canopy of string lights. He steals a glance at Margaret every now and then, and he's curious what she's thinking about when he sees the slightly forlorn smile on her lips as she watches a young couple skating hand in hand.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently.

She studies his face for the longest time. He's the first man who's ever shown any interest in her. The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor when she was fourteen, and almost all the boys in Arcadia had enlisted and gone overseas. And Margaret's heart had gone with one boy in particular. She had been a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday when her dad and her future father-in-law had decided she would marry Warren. There had been no romance leading up to the wedding, and there had certainly been no romance for the next three decades. After Warren died, releasing her from their unhappy marriage, she had been in no rush to be anyone's wife again and was more than happy to embrace her reputation as the formidable Langston matriarch if it meant finally being able to live her life on her own terms.

Suddenly, there is something she wants to ask Brian, though she's not quite sure which way she wants him to answer. "Have you ever been married before?"

He's taken aback by her question, and though it's a topic he'd rather not discuss, he'd promised that he'd always be honest with her.

"Yeah, I have. A long time ago," he answers.

"What happened?"

"The timing was off. Julia and I met in business school. We were in a lot of the same classes, had a lot of the same friends. But we were dating other people, and we were never both single at the same time. After graduation, we ended up working for different companies, but in the same office building. Things happened really fast for us. We got married, and I thought we had the perfect life: great apartment, high-paying jobs, active social life. I was so happy with the way things were going that I didn't realize how unhappy she was. And maybe she didn't say anything _because_ she saw that I was so happy.

"We were so young, and I thought we had all the time in the world. It wasn't that I didn't want to have the kids and the dog and the big house in the suburbs someday—I just didn't want those things at the same time that she wanted them. Even though I loved her, I didn't love her enough to give up my career or my perfect life in the city. It was just sad, really—realizing that I didn't miss my wife when I was away on business and that she wasn't always the first person I wanted to call any time I had news to share. We fell in love quickly, and then we fell out of love just as fast. We both just knew that it was over," he says, running a hand through his hair.

He turns to look at her, but she's staring straight ahead with a worried look on her face and her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. She knows that if she had been able to marry the boy she'd wanted or if Brian's marriage to Julia hadn't ended, the two of them wouldn't be sitting here together right now. She knows she's getting ahead of herself, but she's enjoyed how attentive he's been. She knows it's only natural that his fascination will fade with time, but she doesn't want it to. Warren had been indifferent towards her from the beginning, but the idea that Brian might one day feel something similar to indifference towards her leaves her feeling on edge. And while she likes that he's so committed to his career, she never wants to find herself in competition with it for Brian's attention.

He gently places a hand on top of hers and the tension slowly melts away. Maybe it's too soon to be telling her this, but he tells her anyway. "New York felt so different this past week. Maybe it was the cold, cloudy days or how so many of my favorite places have gone out of business. But the entire time, I just couldn't wait to get home . . . and to see you again."

She's touched by what he's said, and though she's not bold enough to tell him that she had missed him too, she smiles and says, "It's good to see you too."

It's certainly not the type of Valentine's Day dinner he ever thought he'd be eating at this age, but the cheap fast food and hot chocolate from the small concession stand are the best meal he's had in days, because he's sharing them with Margaret. Looking around the park that night, he notices that he and Margaret are older than all the other couples. But he feels as energetic and as hopeful tonight as he did in college, as if the possibilities are all before him.

They walk back to the library, and though she lives within walking distance, tonight is the first time she accepts his offer to drive her home, slowly letting him into more of her life.

He helps her out of the truck and holds onto her hand as he walks her to the front door of her building.

"You know what else I was thinking about while I was in New York?" he asks. "I know you've never been to Seattle, and maybe it's because I haven't had seafood since I moved to Arcadia, but I was thinking that maybe I could bring Seattle here to you. I'd really like to invite you over to the house for dinner sometime."

It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever offered to do for her, and she accepts his invitation immediately.

* * *

     Brian is preparing dinner in the kitchen on Saturday evening when the doorbell rings. He takes a deep breath, pushing away the unpleasant memory of how things had played out the last time he had opened his front door to find Margaret standing on his front porch. He tells himself that this time will be different.

When he opens the door, Margaret greets him with the most captivating smile, leaving him both speechless and breathless. Her hair is pulled back in a simple and elegant French twist, which only enhances her incredible eyes and cheekbones. And it also draws Brian's attention lower, to the long and irresistible column of her neck.

He's so enthralled by the intoxicating scent of her perfume that he almost doesn't register that Margaret is handing him two bottles of wine, saying she wasn't sure what he had prepared for dinner so she had brought both chardonnay and merlot. He recovers his wits as her hand brushes against his, and he sets the bottles down on the foyer table before asking her if he can take her coat. She stands with her back to him, and as he watches her untying the sash of her coat, an intense jolt of desire shoots straight through him. His hands itch to touch her and move of their own accord. He hesitates when his hands land on her shoulders, worried that she might find his touch presumptuous. But he doesn't pull his hands away. And Margaret doesn't pull away either. He slowly slips the coat off her shoulders, and his breath catches in his throat when his fingertips make contact with the silk material of her figure-hugging, navy blue dress.

As Brian hangs up her coat, Margaret takes a moment to regain her composure, trying not to shiver from the sensual feeling of Brian's hands slowly sliding down her arms that has just been imprinted onto her skin. Earlier this evening, when Alex had come downstairs to drive her over to Brian's house, she had dismissed Alex's wolf-whistle and her comment that "That Mr. Addison sure is one lucky son of a gun" as nothing more than Alex being her usual good-humored self. She had rolled her eyes in mock annoyance, secretly hoping that it wouldn't be obvious to anyone that she'd spent the greater part of the afternoon nervously fretting over what to do with her hair and which dress to wear. She supposes she should feel ashamed of her vanity, but she can't prevent herself from smiling when she sees how Brian can't seem to keep his eyes—or his hands—off her this evening.

He gathers the two wine bottles in one hand, and she nearly jumps when Brian's other hand lightly touches her elbow before sliding to her lower back to guide her towards the kitchen. It feels as if every inch of her body is tingling, and she shyly tucks a loose tendril of her hair behind her ear as she walks beside him.

When they walk into the kitchen, he goes to place the bottle of chardonnay in the wine cooler, and she nervously peruses the handful of gardening books neatly stacked at the end of the dining table.

He sets the timer on the oven, telling her, "Dinner won't be ready for a few more minutes. Come on, there's something I'd like to show you."

He places his hand on her lower back again and leads her through the French doors just off the dining area.

She wraps her arms around herself as she steps onto the patio deck and into the unseasonably cold March evening. The backyard is a large and beautiful space, and she imagines it will be even more beautiful when the springtime temperatures finally arrive. She smiles softly as she listens to Brian enthusiastically describing his plans to transform the backyard into something really special: hanging a hammock between the two perfectly spaced oak trees in the far corner of the yard, planting a row of cherry blossom trees because they remind him of his hometown, where he'd like to put the fire pit, how eager he is to have the deck refinished and a new grill in place in time for outdoor barbeques this summer.

She can't quite identify the feeling—an indescribable mixture of profound contentment tinged with both sadness and longing—that forms in her chest when Brian turns around and smiles at her. _He's so different from Warren_ , she thinks to herself, _so unrelenting in his hopefulness and his gentleness_. She had never realized just how much she wanted and needed those two things in her life until she met Brian. Her life had been such a difficult and lonely one, and somewhere along the way she had stopped believing that she deserved to have anything good happen to her. But then she had gone against the rules last fall when she accepted an invitation to dinner from a tall, handsome stranger. She had briefly allowed herself to believe that something had sparked between the two of them and had been utterly devastated when she discovered what she had thought was the real reason for his interest. And though she had told Brian to stay away from the Langstons, when Henry informed her that Brian had backed out of the deal, she hadn't known how to take the news: What did it mean if Brian was willing to put her wants above his own? Why did Brian's eagerness to have the Langstons out of his life upset her so much? She had felt so humiliated and hurt when she had mistakenly assumed his interest in her was "strictly business", quickly pushing him away in order to protect herself. And she had been ready to push him away again two months ago. But he had changed her mind by apologizing, not only for his dishonesty but for its hurtful effects on her. Looking at Brian now, she thinks of all the wonderful moments that have happened since he'd come back into her life. And it astounds her just how many of those moments have happened because of him and with him.

Her warm thoughts almost make her forget all about the chill in the air, and the sight of Brian walking over to where she's standing only warms her more. She's flattered when he offers her his sports coat, and she can't deny how much she enjoys being enveloped in both his warmth and in the scent of his cologne. There is something dark and exhilarating about the way Brian's eyes drink in the sight of her wearing something of his, and she finds herself smiling in silent approval as her eyes rake over his torso.

He breaks the tension by clearing his throat and saying, "This is actually the first time I've ever lived somewhere with a yard to take care of, so I'm completely clueless when it comes to gardening. I'd love to hear any thoughts or suggestions you're willing to share."

He offers her his arm, and they take a leisurely stroll around the backyard, with Brian listening in rapt attention as Margaret shows him which plants would work best in which areas.

"I've always loved daisies and gardenias," she tells him when they return to the patio deck, and she can tell by the way he smiles at her that he's committing that little detail to memory. She tries her best to keep her expression neutral as she adds, "And you know, you really can't go wrong with some variegated tulips."

He chuckles at that, loving the way her teasing tone makes her voice sound even more songlike and the way her mischievous smile slowly forms on her kissable lips. The sight of her eyes—almost the same dark shade of blue as her very alluring dress—glittering against the backdrop of a pink sky at twilight takes his breath away.

He's just about to tell her how absolutely beautiful she looks when the oven timer goes off in the kitchen. They exchange shy smiles, and he sighs inwardly as the two of them walk back into the house.

\---

He has always liked the kitchen of this house, and the space is made even more beautiful with a beautiful woman in it.

Everything feels comfortable and familiar from the moment they share their first glass of wine at the island. The way Margaret gazes at him as he tells her a little about each dish he’s prepared for their dinner—Dungeness crab cakes, Alaskan halibut, asparagus and chanterelle risotto, and macadamia nut bread pudding—makes him beam with pride. He had wanted to impress her, and the sparkle in her eyes tells him that he just might have succeeded.

Dinner goes off without a hitch. The wine and conversation flow easily to the sounds of West Coast jazz playing on the stereo. There is hardly a moment that evening when Margaret's face is not glowing with a smile, and she enjoys listening to Brian's cheerful voice telling her about some of his favorite memories of the West Coast and about the latest project he's landed that will take him out to the Ozark Mountains in the upcoming months.

After dessert, she offers to help him with the dishes, and while he had been planning to simply throw everything into the dishwasher at the end of the night, the temptation to prolong his evening with her easily wins out. His eyes follow Margaret as she gets up from the dining table, and he's hypnotized by the graceful sway of her dress as she makes her way over to the sink. He loves that he can smell her perfume on his clothes, and the house suddenly feels like something more with her in it.

As he walks towards her, he's equal parts frustrated and relieved that he's carrying their plates and wine glasses, as it prevents his hands from doing what he wants to do most: encircle her slender waist, kiss his way up the side of her neck, and nibble at the delicate skin just behind her right earlobe.

Their hands and arms occasionally brush against each other's as they work in a companionable silence, with her washing the dishes and handing them off to him to be rinsed and placed on the drying rack. As she hands him the last wine glass, a lock of her hair comes loose and falls into her eyes. Without a second thought, Brian reaches for the dish towel to dry off his hands and gently tuck her hair behind her ear, and she tenses when she feels his index finger lightly tracing the shell of her ear.

Slowly, she turns to meet his gaze, and the way he towers over her and the look in his eyes set her heart racing. No one has ever looked at her like that, with such intensity and so unapologetically full of fascination and desire. Her eyes dart away, and she feels like such a coward as she takes a step backwards.

She chews her bottom lip nervously as she watches him rinse off the glass, shut off the water, and dry off his hands.

Then, he surprises her by gently pulling her hands towards him by her wrists. He holds her hands between his own and dries off her hands for her, and the thin material of the dish towel is the only thing separating his warm skin from hers. The languid rhythm of his movements causes every inch of her body to ignite—whether from desire or the wine or the penetrating heat of Brian's eyes on her she does not know—and she has never felt so uncertain about what to do next.

He whispers her name, and the low timbre of his voice is simply too much for her.

"It's getting late," she says hurriedly, unable to look at him as she pulls her hands away.

If Brian is disappointed, he doesn't show it. Instead, he simply nods in agreement and offers to drive her home.

\---

Neither of them speaks during the drive to her apartment building, only occasionally stealing little glances at each other.

At her building, Brian puts the truck in park and they sit quietly for a few seconds before he asks her, "Will I see you again?"

There is a clear-cut nervousness to his voice, and she smiles softly, letting him know that his touches tonight were not entirely unwelcome as she replies with a nod. She's turning to exit the Silverado when he slips his hand under hers and lifts her hand to his lips. His kiss is feather-light and yet remarkably warm.

"Good night, Margaret," he says, and her heart flutters at the velvety quality of his lips and of his voice when he had whispered her name.

\---

She lies in bed later that evening, absentmindedly twirling a lock of hair between her fingers as she looks at the vase of variegated tulips Brian had given her for Valentine's Day. The tulips are now in full bloom, and a dreamy smile forms on her lips when she thinks about how the flowers are not the only things that have blossomed with the changing seasons. It feels as if a chemical change has occurred between her and Brian, and the realization leaves her feeling deeply panicked and deeply calm at the same time.

It is a few minutes into Sunday when she whispers, "Good night, Brian" into the darkness, and the two syllables that make up his name sound as soothing as those of a steady heartbeat.

Brian's soft kiss is warm on her skin, and as she drifts into a night of dreaming about him, she can still hear Etta James singing about finding a Sunday kind of love.

* * *

     When Margaret arrives at the baseball field on the first Thursday evening in April, the sight that greets her is one that causes her heart to swell immensely. She takes a seat in the middle row of the bleachers and watches Brian's interactions with her grandson during batting practice.

Over the past two months, she has come to recognize the way Brian's eyes narrow slightly when the wheels in his head are turning and his attention becomes fully focused on the task at hand. She had kept the observation to herself, secretly enjoying those moments when she would look up from her book to steal a glance at him sitting across from her—handsome as ever with his glasses on and occasionally spinning his pen around his thumb as he pores over the business section of the newspaper or a geotechnical report from his latest construction project.

Jacob struggles with his swings, and she can see that Brian notices it too. But Brian is not the type of person to go around offering unsolicited advice; rather, he continues his quiet observations until Jacob eventually turns to him and asks for help on how he can improve his hitting. A smile tugs at her lips as she watches Brian—who is an unending well of patience—showing Jacob how to keep his shoulders square and how to plant his front foot at the correct angle towards the plate. Even from this distance, she can see the smile on Jacob's face and that her nine-year-old grandson appreciates how Brian, similar to Margaret, doesn't talk to him like he's a child.

For the next few minutes, she loses herself in her thoughts. She can see how much Brian cares about Jacob, and she suspects a great deal of his concern has to do with her: Jacob is one of the most important things in Margaret's life, and that fact alone makes him unequivocally important to Brian. To know that Brian could love someone she loves—and love them deeply and for her sake—only endears him to her even more.

To this day, she is deeply grateful that her perfect grandson had never met his grandfather. Jacob's life had ended far too soon, but at least his life had never been tarnished by Warren's disappointing presence. Though she feels no guilt whatsoever in admitting she had never loved Warren, it feels almost traitorous to know that she would have wanted Jacob to know his grandfather—if only that grandfather had been someone else. For decades, she had wished that the "someone else" had been the other Langston son.

But now, watching the way Brian and Jacob get along so well with each other, Margaret can't help but wish that Jacob had had someone like Brian to encourage him and to teach him how to track pitches. But more importantly, she wishes her perfect grandson had had someone like Brian looking out for him after she had passed away. _If only I'd been free to choose who his grandfather was_ , she thinks with regret, _maybe Jacob would be running the factory and have a nine-year-old son of his own. Maybe then things would have worked out the way they should have._

When it's time for the game to begin, she hears Brian's genuinely cheerful voice telling Jacob, "Don't forget to have the time of your life out there!" as he heads up to the bleachers to find her. True to form, Brian's eyes find Margaret instantly, and he smiles at her like he's been looking forward to seeing her all day. And it's just one more thing about him that causes her to experience the sensation of butterflies in her stomach.

The game is tied as they head into the bottom of the sixth and final inning. With two outs and nobody on base, it's Jacob's turn to make his way to the batter's box. His brown eyes nervously scan the crowd, and when his eyes land on Margaret and Brian sitting together, Brian gives him a thumbs up and an encouraging smile. And somehow Jacob seems to understand everything Brian's trying to tell him: the game is tied, there's no pressure on Jacob to be a hero, so just go out there and have fun.

Margaret watches the way her grandson smiles and nods confidently at Brian, and her feelings for the handsome gentleman sitting next to her only intensify. She looks at Brian, her eyes lingering on his handsome face for several seconds. When Brian reaches over and gives her hand a gentle squeeze, she surprises them both by holding onto his hand, keeping him close. The smile that slowly brightens his handsome face makes her feel like a hopeful, glowing girl of fourteen again. Blushing lightly, she shyly tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear as she turns her attention back to the game.

The pitch seems to happen in slow motion and the entire park is so quiet one could hear a pin drop. But then, the ping of the aluminum bat connecting with the ball rings out, and everyone in the bleachers leaps to their feet. The ball sails over the left field wall and Jacob takes off running, rounding the bases with the most gleeful expression on his face. As he makes his way back to home plate, he looks up to the bleachers and gives Margaret a huge smile. She is beaming with pride, her eyes brimming with tears of pure joy as she watches her grandson being lifted into the air and carried off the field by his rowdy teammates when he reaches home plate.

And amidst all the excited cheers and high fives, Brian can only stare at Margaret. They are still holding hands, and Brian finds himself mesmerized to the point of speechlessness as he listens to the way she laughs—effervescently and without restraint. When Margaret turns and looks at him, very nearly throwing her arms around him in her exuberance, everything else seems to fade into the background. The roar of the cheering crowd becomes nothing more than a low hum, and time seems to slow until it comes to a complete standstill. The smile on her perfect mouth and the gleam in those incredible blue eyes are even more breathtaking in the golden light of the setting sun. Every time he looks at her, it's as if a tidal wave has crashed into him, and this time is no exception. But Margaret has also never looked more beautiful to him than she does in this moment. And suddenly, Brian is not completely certain whether he is awake or if he has stumbled into a waking dream.

But eventually the spell is broken by the slight jostling from the other spectators in the crowd as they exit the bleachers. Margaret’s expression grows wistful, and Brian slowly exhales as he feels the moment passing them by. He gives her a shy smile as he continues to look only at her, even though he wants nothing more than to tangle his fingers in her silken hair and kiss her breathless. He follows the path of her eyes to where her hand still rests inside his, and he anxiously waits to see if she will pull her hand away. But instead he's pleasantly surprised when she gives him a coy smile and they make the decision to shift their hands simultaneously, allowing their fingers to interlace. He carefully guides her down the bleacher steps and walks her home, hand in hand and with his heart rate slightly elevated the entire way.

* * *

     They stop by the coffee shop on the way back to her building, and Brian can't help but smile at how he has come to think of Common Grounds as "their" coffee shop. Margaret lets go of his hand as they approach the entrance, and he tries not to feel too discouraged about that, reminding himself that she is from another time and that her reluctance to engage in any public display of affection doesn't necessarily have anything to do with him. This is new territory for both of them, but he stands a little closer to her this evening as they wait in line.

The coffee shop is surprisingly busy for a Thursday night, and he's just about to comment on that fact when Robin makes her way through the crowd and greets them in a cheerful voice.

"I didn't expect to see you here tonight! They're just about to go on," she tells them, gesturing to the concert stage out back where Alex's band is setting up for their set.

They follow Robin outside and stay for a few songs.

When the first inevitable slow song of the evening starts up, Brian feels as nervous as a high school senior who's about to ask the prettiest girl in school to be his date to the prom. He watches the colorful stage lights dancing in Margaret's hair and wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to dance. As much as he'd like to slip his hands around her slender waist and hold her close as they slow dance under the bright lights, he notices the wistful smile on Margaret's face as she watches all the young couples dancing around them. And Brian is happy just to stand there watching her as he listens to the lyrics. It's a song he has heard before and has always liked; now he knows he will forever associate this song with the way he feels tonight.

They wave goodbye to Robin when the song finishes and make their way back through the park.

He reaches for her hand as they enter the park, and she can feel the electricity crackling in the air between them as their fingers intertwine and their palms meet.

When they reach her building, instead of saying good night to him on the front steps, she leads him through the lobby and into the central courtyard.

It's as if he has been transported into some secret hideaway. There is a small fountain in the center of the courtyard and star-shaped lights hanging from the magnolia trees. They sit together on the loveseat in front of the fire pit, and Brian leans back to look up at the night sky. The moon is full and there are hundreds of visibly twinkling stars. There is a feeling of expectation and romance in the air, and it mixes beautifully with the fragrance of the newly-flowering magnolias above them. He feels deeply panicked and deeply calm at the same time. And unbelievably happy.

When Margaret turns and looks at him, her eyes are the darkest he's ever seen them and are sparkling so brilliantly in the firelight. And she takes his breath away. He moves in closer, his warm brown eyes full of wonder and wanting. He slowly tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, and a faint blush colors those incredible cheekbones when she feels him tracing the shell of her ear, just like he had after their dinner last weekend.

"My God, you're beautiful," he says breathlessly. "Don't you know that?"

The way she looks up at him in slight disbelief lets him know it's the first time anyone has ever told her that.

"And I'm . . . I'm dazzled by you, Margaret."

Her eyes linger on his lips as he whispers her name, and his fingers slide into her hair. Suddenly, there is only one thing she wants, and he eagerly grants her wish.

He kisses her, and his lips are warm and gentle. He feels the small tremble in her lips, feels the way she hesitates for a brief moment before she closes her eyes and presses her lips back against his. His other hand gently slides up her long neck to cup her flushed cheek as he continues to kiss her. He can taste the pleasant spiciness of house blend coffee and just the faintest hint of brown sugar on her soft lips. Her hands slide up his chest, and she curls her fingers into the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer. Their kiss deepens and her long eyelashes flutter against his as they breathe each other in.

He rests his forehead against hers afterwards, and her heart swells at the sound of his soft laugh. "I've wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you," he confesses, sending a shiver through her.

They walk back inside, and at the foot of the staircase, Brian holds her hands in his as he presses a warm kiss to her cheek.

"Good night, Margaret. See you tomorrow?" he asks. His voice is so lovely and hopeful, but her emotions are in such disarray that she can only nod in response.

\---

She doesn't sleep that night. Staring out her bedroom window all night, she can still taste Brian's kiss on her lips. That his kisses had been as perfect as he is doesn't surprise her. And somehow that fact only makes her feel worse and fills her with a deep sense of dread.

The day breaks exceedingly cold and gray, a grim portent of the cataclysm that awaits.

* * *

     The memory of their kiss is still fresh on his lips and he feels as over the moon as he had last night when he walks into the coffee shop the next morning. He takes a seat at the small table by the window and leafs through the newspaper as he waits for her.

But Margaret doesn't show.

He checks his phone, but there are no missed calls or text messages from her. It's already eight o'clock, and he knows that Margaret is not the type to show up late for work. He also knows that he has a meeting with a new client that is scheduled to begin in half an hour.

As distracted as he is, he somehow manages to get through the meeting without any problems. He goes back to the house and tries to get some work done, but he mostly finds himself staring at his phone like some nervous teenager. He prepares lunch in the kitchen, grateful for the temporary distraction, but his meal remains largely untouched hours later. All sorts of questions begin to race through his mind: Were things moving too quickly for her? Had she not enjoyed the kiss? Did she not feel the same way about him?

By three o'clock, he is practically climbing the walls and finds himself driving over to the library. He pulls into the library parking lot just as Margaret is exiting the building, and the apprehensive look on her face when she sees him makes him question whether he may have made a serious misstep.

"We have to talk," she says flatly, and her tone is eerily similar to the one she had used on that awful morning last November.

\---

He puts the truck in park when they reach a small clearing in the woods on the outskirts of Arcadia and follows Margaret down to a wooden dock that leads onto a quiet lake. He walks to the end of the dock and smiles as he takes in the sight of the still waters and the rolling hills. He turns around to tell her what a beautiful place this is, but the look on Margaret's face causes his smile to vanish. Her eyes are watery and she looks so small and scared.

He walks towards her, reaching for her hand and to ask her what's wrong. But she takes a step back and away from him.

"Brian, this isn't going to work," she says quickly, her voice quivering.

He freezes in his tracks, feeling as if the earth has suddenly opened up beneath him.

She presses her lips together tightly, taking a deep breath before the truths come pouring out.

"There is so much you don't know about me, Brian . . . and it's all bad. 

"You know that your grandfather and the others didn't die in a trucking accident, but what you don't know about is everything that happened after. Two of the men returned. Edward Langston called them demons and ordered that they be found and executed. He ruled with an iron fist, and his men were loyal. And as the head foreman, it fell upon my dad to lead the charge. So we hunted those men down and killed them again. And again. And again. And if your grandfather had come back, we would have hunted him down and killed him too.

"Then, a few months before I turned eighteen, Edward Langston decided to reward my dad for his loyalty by promising him that his only child would have a better life—by marrying into the Langstons. I didn't want to marry Warren. He was so much older than me and he was a drunk. And I knew that we would never love each other. I wanted to finish high school and go to college and have the freedom to live a simple life somewhere far away from Arcadia. But Edward Langston needed a grandson, and I had to protect my dad; he was the only family I ever had. So I became a Langston and did whatever was necessary to keep the truth covered up and to protect Henry's and later Jacob's birthright."

She pauses for a moment, steeling herself for what else she needs to tell him.

"Henry was furious when he found out just how many things I had kept from him. But it gets worse.

"When I was ten, I learned how to make the Returned disappear for good. And last fall, I put that knowledge to good use when I made Barbara Langston disappear. She was Fred's wife, and she drowned in the same accident that took Jacob’s life. For decades, everyone in Arcadia has believed that she died trying to save Jacob, but it was actually Jacob who was trying to save her. The reason Barbara was down at the river that day was because she was planning to meet up with her lover and to leave Arcadia with Maggie. I had never liked Barbara, never wanted her for a daughter-in-law. But finding out that she was cheating on my son and that she had planned to take my granddaughter away and that she had been responsible for my grandson's death . . . It was unforgivable. So I decided to get rid of her once and for all. I met up with her in the park late one night and honed in on her guilt, telling her that Jacob's death and the downfall of the Langstons were all her fault. I told her that no one really wanted her back and that everyone was better off without her. I destroyed her will to live, and she let go."

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asks. There is neither anger nor accusation in his voice, but the anguish is undeniable.

Seeing the mirth disappear from his eyes—and knowing that she's the cause of it—makes her feel as if a part of her is slowly dying. She had thought her heart was impervious to everything, but there are still parts of her that are tender and vulnerable. And Brian had found them all. She doesn't know whether to be grateful to him or to lash out at him. She had opened her heart to this man, something which in the past had only ever led to her heart being broken. She had fallen in love with Ben when she was fourteen and had spent the next four decades pining for him. She had tried to open her heart to Warren after the birth of their sons, only to be met with his continued indifference.

No one has ever looked at her or made her feel like she was worth winning the way Brian does. No one ever saw _her_. But for reasons she cannot begin to comprehend, she's not invisible to Brian—he sees her, and she's the only one he sees. The way Brian had kissed her last night, so full of tenderness and longing, was more intimate than anything she had ever experienced in nearly three decades of marriage to Warren. She's standing at the edge of the Rubicon, painfully aware that everything they've shared up to this point is about to change. To know that the way he looks at her may be irreparably changed and that the perfect kiss they had shared under the stars last night might soon be nothing but a bittersweet memory, rather than a prelude to something more, is heart-rending.

"You promised you'd never lie to me, and I don't want to lie to you either. But I've been deceiving you the whole time. The woman you saw in those photographs doesn't exist anymore, Brian. She died a slow and painful death from ovarian cancer over three decades ago. She's nothing more than ashes locked away in a mausoleum. And the woman you had dinner with back in November . . . she's gone too. You're looking at nothing more than a cheap imitation," she tells him as he looks at her in complete shock.

"After Henry found out the truth about the fire and about Barbara, he threw me out of the house. I ended up at a government facility for the Returned, and while I was there, a man named Preacher James came to see me. I don't know how it's possible, but he can bring the dead back to life. He said he’d get us all out of the facility on one condition: if I told him everything I knew about how to make the Returned disappear. When I refused to help him, he warned me that he had the freedom to walk out of the facility and that he would harm my family until I gave him what he wanted. I never had any intention of helping him, but I had to protect Jacob. So I drank the poison the preacher had brought with him. I died again, and then the preacher brought me back," she says, shutting her eyes in an attempt to block out the memory of that terrible day.

When she opens her eyes, Brian is looking out at the lake and she thinks perhaps that makes it easier for her to tell him one more confession.

"You'll never know how much these last few weeks have meant to me." _Or how much you mean to me_ , she says to herself. "But I ruin everything, Brian, and I don't want to ruin you. There is something perfect and whole about you, and I'm just . . . I'm neither of those things. I never was, really," she says, shaking her head dejectedly. "I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness, so I won't ask you for it. What I am asking is: Will I ever see you again?" she asks in a thin and tremulous voice.

In so many ways, Margaret feels as if she is suddenly eleven years old again—having just told her biggest secrets to a tall, handsome boy with warm brown eyes—and fearing the worst. It has been five months since that night in the Langston house, five months since she had very nearly let go. At the time there had been nothing left to lose. But as she looks at Brian standing silently at the end of the dock with his back to her, she knows that the situation is very different now. Because now there is something—something that had been so wonderful and wholly unexpected—for her to lose, and a feeling akin to despair settles in the pit of her stomach. She chews her bottom lip nervously as she watches Brian restlessly run a hand through his hair and work through the knots in his shoulders. Everything has gone eerily silent, and the sound of her furiously pounding heart echoes at a deafening volume in her ears. She doesn't know whether it's been several minutes or just a handful of seconds, but eventually Brian turns around and begins the slow, silent walk back from the end of the dock.

"I, um . . . I'll drive you home," he says as he walks past her, not looking at her.

She winces at his response and pulls her cardigan tighter to ward off the numbing chill that has suddenly overtaken her. She would have preferred his anger and accusations over his indifference; indifference reminds her far too much of Warren. And to be on the receiving end of Brian's indifference is devastating. Her eyes sting as they well with tears, and she feels a small sob rip through her chest as a single tear rolls down her cheek. And something inside crumbles away as she watches Brian walking away from her. 

* * *

     The drive back into town unfolds in a tense silence. Brian keeps his focus on the road, and Margaret stares out the window during the entire drive, her throat burning from the sting of rejection and from the effort of trying to keep the tears at bay. When they arrive at her building, she immediately gets out of the truck without another word or another look back. The strain of keeping herself from crying, mixed with the effort of climbing the stairs and the fact that Brian hadn't said anything or tried to stop her getting out of the truck, is almost enough to make her collapse in defeat right there in the stairwell. Her lungs feel like they're burning up inside her chest. By the time she makes it to her apartment and walks over to the window, Brian is gone.

She hasn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, and she knows she should eat something, but she has no appetite. Instead, she wraps herself in her old quilt and lies curled up on the sofa all evening, staring at her phone as it sits silently on the coffee table, willing it to ring.

A few minutes after midnight, she knows it is a lost cause and that Brian won't be calling her again any time soon, if ever. Unsurprisingly, sleep eludes her as she stares out her bedroom window, and the intense ache she feels in her chest tonight feels painfully similar to the one she had experienced last autumn. When she had walked out of Brian's house after telling him to call off his business deal with Henry, instead of starting the engine and driving off, she had sat in the car with the key in the ignition and stared at Brian's front door for a full minute. The ache had grown heavier with each passing second, and eventually she'd had to accept that Brian wasn't going to come after her.

At the time, her heart had ached because she thought Brian had never felt anything for her. Now, the pain feels even rawer. Because now she knows that whatever feelings Brian had ever felt towards her have been extinguished.

\---

She isn't scheduled to work at the library the next morning, but she goes into work anyway, needing an escape from the maddening stillness of her apartment. After tossing and turning most of the night, she had drifted into a dreamless sleep for maybe half an hour at the most. When she wakes to another gray and unpleasantly cold morning, the silence of the apartment almost seems to echo. Grabbing her phone off the bedside table and seeing that there are no missed calls or messages, the dejection leaves her feeling as drained as chemotherapy had. She knows that her fatigue and her inability to shake off the chill that had crept into her bones yesterday afternoon are due to more than just two days' lack of sleep and food. She also knows that she cannot lie in bed all day, staring at the ceiling and letting her nerves fray to bits with waiting for the phone to ring.

When she walks into the library, Alex and Robin, though undoubtedly surprised to see her, are tactful enough not to comment. Margaret quietly goes about collecting the returned library books from the drop box and placing them back on the shelves. The tedious task keeps her hands and her mind occupied, but after a few hours, her efficiency leaves her with nothing else to do and she retreats to the empty break room. She's so lost in her melancholy that she doesn't notice her coffee has gone cold. Nor does she hear anything that's being said to her until Alex gently removes the coffee mug from her hands and replaces it with a freshly brewed one.

"I'd ask if you're all right, but it's obvious that you're not," Alex says, sounding genuinely concerned as she takes a seat across from her. "Robin's pretty worried about you. You haven't moved from this spot for almost an hour now."

Margaret feels her body go tense with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I know I've been really distracted the past couple days. I'm just . . ."

She doesn't know what she feels. A part of her feels disgusted with herself, hating how unsteady her voice sounds and for her weakness. She feels like she can't trust herself not to break down in tears without any warning, at any moment. She cannot remember feeling this awful since her wedding day, and it only makes her feel even more ridiculous. She had been a naive girl of seventeen then. She is a grown woman now, so why is it that the words she is focusing all her strength on preventing from coming out in a tearful voice are "I'm just heartbroken"?

"Margaret," Alex says, her voice as nonchalant as always, "It's Saturday. It's not exactly like business is going gangbusters out there." Alex takes a sip of her coffee, and the way her eyes narrow slightly indicates that she has figured out what has Margaret so distraught. "He'll call, you know. After all, when a man looks at a woman the way Mr. Addison looks at you . . ."

Margaret smiles weakly at that and shakes her head slowly. "No, I . . . I really made a mess of things."

"Well then, that makes you the best person for the job of fixing it."

Under any other circumstance, Margaret would have appreciated the straightforwardness of those words. She doesn't know what it is about Alex that makes her feel like she can be honest with her. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Alex too has warm brown eyes. Or perhaps it's how Alex never seems to get rattled, as if she is always so assured that things will just work themselves out. It is probably this calmness that explains why Robin admires Alex so much and has latched onto her. Usually, it is Alex's calmness that Margaret likes too. But in her currently agitated state, she suddenly finds Alex's nonchalance exasperating. She doesn't want to continue with this conversation any further and shakes her head dismissively.

"It doesn't matter anyway. I'll be fine. It's just one more disappointment to deal with. I'll get over it," she says curtly.

Alex arches an eyebrow at that, the flash of disappointment removing all traces of sympathy from her eyes. "Yeah, you're right. After a few weeks, things will settle back into the way they were. And you'll settle too. And that's downright disappointing," Alex says flatly, her voice completely sapped of its happy-go-lucky quality. "Because "fine" isn't anything to write home about. "Fine" is just familiar. And you've already been there, done that. So yeah, I have no doubt that you can always go back to being just "fine". But why would you want to?"

There is something jarringly similar about the way she feels now and the way she had felt standing on the dock at the lake yesterday afternoon. Alex drains the last of her coffee and gets up from the table, leaving Margaret sitting alone again in stunned silence. Alex may approach everything with a casual attitude, but she's never flippant. And Margaret had never realized how much Alex and Brian remind her of each other until now. She looks to the door where Alex stands looking at her with a half-smile.

"You're strong, Margaret, and that's admirable. But strength isn't the same thing as resilience. And life's nothing without that spark. And you know that," she says matter-of-factly before walking out the door.

\---

When Margaret leaves the library that afternoon, the temperature has dropped, but she finds herself walking to the edge of town—to a place she has avoided since she returned for the first time.

* * *

    The cemetery is deserted, with only the chirping of the goldfinches to break up the silence as Margaret takes a seat on the cold stone steps leading up to the Langston family plot. She had avoided coming here ever since she returned last fall, not wanting to face the irrefutable proof that she and Jacob had died. She had given her entire life to the Langstons, sacrificed her dreams and her happiness for their sake. But everything she had worked so hard to protect had disintegrated in the course of a single year.

She remembers waking up alone in the nearby woods the first time she returned. The pain in her abdomen was gone and so too was the bone-crushing fatigue. It wasn't until she made her way to the main road that she understood what had happened. The road and the trees had looked similar to how she remembered them, and yet it all felt wrong. And she knew she was no longer lying in a coma in the hospital. She wasn't simply dreaming.

When she arrived at the cemetery and saw the Langston mausoleum, somehow she had just known that her ashes were interred behind its doors. But the shock of realizing that she was a Returned—a demon herself—had been nothing compared to the sight of the statue standing beside the mausoleum. She had felt her whole body go numb when she saw that the boy in the statue was her beautiful little grandson. And when Jacob had appeared in the cemetery—still as young and as perfect as she remembered him, but now also a Returned—it had absolutely devastated her. She remembers telling Barbara that returning from the dead wasn't a second chance, but rather a punishment for past sins. If she hadn't truly believed in those words then, she believes them now.

\---

She hears footsteps approaching, and her heart leaps into her throat. Because she knows exactly who those footsteps belong to.

Brian takes a seat beside her, and the light blue color of his shirt stands out so vividly against the grayness that surrounds them. He smiles apologetically as he holds out a cup of coffee to her.

"House blend with one packet of brown sugar," he says without any trace of anger in his voice.

She chews her bottom lip nervously as she stares at the cardboard cup in her hands, feeling completely at a loss for words. In some ways, she is flattered that he had memorized the way she takes her coffee. And at the same time, his thoughtfulness doesn't surprise her at all. She can feel him watching her, and she takes in a deep, shaky breath before meeting his gaze.

"Do you hate me?" she asks timidly.

It feels as if his heart is slowly shattering as he takes in her appearance. Margaret has always been slender, but there is a gauntness and a pallor to her today that he finds worrisome. She looks like she hasn't eaten or slept in days. But it is the anguish in her eyes—red rimmed and dulled with fatigue—that completely destroys him. It's obvious that she's been crying, and he's never hated himself more than he does in this moment.

"No, of course not," he says soothingly, taking her hand in his. "I like you too much to ever hate you."

As comforting as it is to hear him say that, she can only smile wanly and shake her head slowly in disbelief. "But it was all my fault: the death of those factory workers, what happened after . . . everything."

"Margaret—"

"It was!" she insists. "If I hadn't been there that day, maybe my dad would have done something differently. I don't know what Edward Langston said to him that afternoon—if he threatened to harm me or if he guilted my dad into thinking about my future. But either way, I was leverage. It was because of me that those twelve men died, why your mother had to grow up without her father, why you didn't get to know your grandfather," she says, her voice faltering.

"You shouldn't waste your sympathies on William Kirk. He doesn't deserve them," Brian says abruptly, and his voice has never sounded so full of disdain, so completely devoid of its characteristic warmth.

He lets go of her hand, scrubbing his hands over his face as he lets out a deep sigh. "There's something I haven't told you . . . about William," he says. "I think he let go. And I think it's because of me. Because of what I said to him."

He thinks back to the last time he saw William. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the check Henry had given him the day before and trying to devise a way to get himself out of their business deal. Henry was so determined to get the factory up and running again that there was only one thing that would change his mind: learning the truth about what his family had covered up for almost eight decades. But exposing the truth also meant exposing his and William's scheme. And it meant losing Margaret forever.

But half a million dollars, though still a significant sum of money, isn't what it used to be, and Brian had done well for himself; he could easily give William the amount he was after and pass it off as Henry Langston's money. He decided he would take William back to L.A. with him and either mail Henry his check back or simply never cash it. And William would be none the wiser. But then the doorbell had rung and Brian had opened the door to find yet another Langston standing on his doorstep. The younger Langston son had demanded that Brian hand over Henry's check and leave Arcadia immediately, and Brian had been more than happy to comply with both requests.

"When I gladly handed over Henry's check to Fred, William was absolutely enraged. He called me a traitor, a disgrace to the Kirk name. But as insulted as I was, a kind of clarity came over me the moment he said those things. I instantly stopped referring to him as "Grandpa" and saw him for who he really was—a revenge-obsessed stranger who just happened to have the same name as my long-deceased grandfather. In that moment, I realized that William had never once asked about his family. He never asked me what became of his widow or about his daughter. He never asked about my mom, Margaret. Not once. He didn't care about his family. It was always just about the money. And yet, he had the nerve to call me the disloyal one. I think it was his indifference towards two people I love very much that turned me completely against him. I am so glad that my mom doesn't have any real memory of him, and I was determined that he would never see her again. I told him I didn't give a damn about him anymore and that he wouldn't be coming back to L.A. with me or up to Seattle at Thanksgiving.

"And then I blindsided him when I told him about my Uncle Charlie. You see, my Grandma Lily was pregnant when William died. She gave birth to a son only a few weeks after the fire. I was so angry with William that I almost felt a sick sense of pleasure in telling him that Charlie had died last year. And I'll never forget the way William's face collapsed when he realized he would never get to meet his son.

"I should have stopped there, but I was just so angry—about what he had said, about the whole situation, about how I thought I'd never see you again—that I just unleashed on him. I told him about how my Grandma had remarried a man named Theodore Walsh. Grandpa Teddy was the man she always referred to as the love of her life, and he adopted my mom and my uncle. William's children didn't grow up as Kirks—they grew up as Rebecca and Charlie Walsh. Grandpa Teddy was the man they called "Dad", the man my brothers and I called "Grandpa". So when William said I was a disgrace to the Kirk name, I just scoffed and told him I was never even a Kirk to begin with.

"I told William, 'I spent my whole life wondering what it would be like to actually meet you. But now that I have, I see that I didn't miss out on anything by not having you in my life. And I'll likely never waste another thought on you. Teddy Walsh was my Grandpa, not you. Maybe you dying in that fire was the best thing you ever did for the family you never deserved, because all of our lives turned out just fine without you.' He stormed out of the house, and I got on a plane to L.A. that night."

He lets out a deep sigh, hanging his head in shame. "Yesterday, when you told me about what makes the Returned disappear, I suddenly knew what had happened to William. That's what I was upset about. I was disgusted with myself, because I was at my absolute worst when I told William that everyone was better off without him. So how could I ever judge you for something I'm also guilty of? It doesn't matter that I didn't know what consequences my words would have. I wanted him gone, and I'm glad that my family will never know what a horrible person William Kirk really was."

They sit quietly for a minute and she watches his expression grow increasingly pensive the longer he stares at the Langston mausoleum and the factory in the distance. "I can't stop thinking about something you said yesterday. Maybe that's how I knew to find you here," he says, turning to look at her. "Did you really die again?"

He sees the faraway and haunted look that creeps into her eyes before she quickly nods her head.

"And both times . . . you knew you were dying?" he asks, barely able to get the words out.

Suddenly, it's as if a heavy weight has been chained to her and she is being dragged to the bottom of a cold, rushing river. It's the same feeling that had struck her when she received the horrific news that Henry had died. She tries to maintain her composure, but she can feel her entire frame slowly rocking back and forth. She tries to shut out the horrible memories of both of her deaths, but the inescapability of the past completely overpowers her.

She remembers how helpless she had felt during those weeks when she had lay in a coma in the hospital. Her resolve gradually weakened the more she dwelled on the disconcerting notion that, even if she somehow managed to pull through the coma, the cancer could always come back. She didn't have the strength to live with that possibility always hanging over her, or to face any more doctor's appointments or surgeries or multiple rounds of chemotherapy. But it was never hearing Fred's voice and believing that her younger son hated her so much that he never once came to visit her that had destroyed what little fight was left in her. And she had faded away.

Then the day came when James Goodman had walked into the government facility, threatening to harm her family unless she told him how to make the Returned—specifically Rachael and her unborn child—disappear. As she swallowed the poisoned wine, she knew that, no matter how awful it would surely be, she had to let the poison take its course.

And it had been awful. She had felt like her windpipe was slowly being crushed as her body convulsed on the floor. As the poison ran through her veins, it had felt like her entire body was burning up from within. Though she had her doubts about whether Preacher James was truly capable of all the things he claimed, she was certain that if she gave in to the temptation of letting go, she would be lost for good. There was simply no other option than to suffer through the excruciating pain. So she had kept repeating Jacob's name over and over to herself to keep her mind from going blank. The feeling of being burned alive eventually gave way to a piercing coldness, as her heart came to a stop and every last bit of air emptied out of her lungs. She had closed her eyes, feeling a single tear run down her cheek and splash on the cold floor. And then the darkness had overtaken her.

The feeling of a single tear running down her cheek now snaps her back to the present, and she suddenly realizes that the reason she feels so warm is because Brian is holding her. He can feel how hard she's shaking, so he just cradles her head against his chest, reassuring her that "It's okay. You're safe now. I've got you. I'm right here, sweetheart."

She can't stop the tears from falling, and she buries her face in Brian's chest as her sobs rip through her. Her fingers curl into his shirt, clinging to him tightly as he tenderly kisses her hair. And slowly but surely her sobs subside, and the unpleasant memories dissolve into thin air. She's finally able to catch her breath again, and she breathes Brian in as deeply as she can. She feels slightly embarrassed by just how desperately she had needed to be held, but being wrapped in Brian's arms makes her feel safer and calmer than she can remember feeling in the longest time.

When she feels steady enough to sit up straight again, he holds her face in his hands, gently sweeping his thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away any last traces of tears.

"I guess I owe that preacher a huge thank you, don't I?" he asks.

The way his voice trembles and the way he looks at her like he's terrified of losing her are almost enough to cause her to break down in sobs all over again. Except for Jacob, no one else had seemed the least bit saddened by the news that she had died again. Until now.

"I'm so sorry, Margaret," he says, his voice thick with emotion.

"For what?" she asks, her voice cracking. "It's not like any of it was your fault."

"I know that. It's just that when you really care about someone, you find yourself apologizing for all sorts of things. Because I think you're wonderful, and I'm so sorry that the world isn't always wonderful too," he tells her, taking her hands in his. "God! I don't want anything bad to ever happen to you."

Her eyes well with fresh tears, and she thinks back to all the times those exact words have been said to her. Ben had said them to her once. So had Jacob. And now Brian.

"I'm so sorry that you've spent the last day thinking I was angry with you or that I hated you, because nothing could be further from the truth. I'm so sorry that I don't always react the right way. Or right away. I'm not perfect, Margaret. I'm just an ordinary guy whose life took the most extraordinary and unexpected turn. I'll never be able to explain it: why didn't I fly back to L.A. as soon as my meetings wrapped up? Or why didn't I just stay in St. Louis through the weekend? I don't know why I ended up in Arcadia last fall. But I'm so glad that I did," he says, holding her hands a little tighter. "And I know exactly why I came back," he tells her. He looks deep into her eyes, and the raw honesty she sees in his eyes heals her hurting heart.

"I like the woman I saw in the photographs, and I like the woman I had dinner with in November. And I'm absolutely crazy about the woman I've been lucky enough to see almost every day for the last eleven weeks." He combs his fingers through her hair and kisses her forehead before resting his forehead against hers. "She's the most extraordinary thing in my life."

She's so overcome with affection for him that it renders her speechless. In the short time she's known him, the relationship they've only just begun to forge has already become one of the most important things in her life. He makes her want things she had never wanted before, makes her believe in things she had stopped believing were possible. She whispers his name and reaches out to caress his cheek, slowly letting out a deep and shuddering breath. He leans into her touch and softly kisses his way down her palm, the exquisite scent of her perfume intensifying with each kiss. And when his lips discover the delicate skin inside her wrist for the first time, he feels like he's come home.

He gives her the most heartwarming smile, and the somber mood that had hung over the day immediately lifts.

"What do you say we go catch a baseball game?" he asks. The twinkle in his eyes and the lightness in his voice make her truly smile for the first time that day, and the sensation of relief finally washes over her.

* * *

     The sun is setting when they arrive at the baseball field. Brian carries the yellow blanket in one arm and holds out his other hand to Margaret like it's the most natural thing in the world. It seems all of Arcadia has decided to come out to tonight's game, and Margaret smiles to herself when she spots her family sitting together in the first row of the bleachers. Jenny is sitting on Marty's lap, talking excitedly as everyone listens in amusement and passes a bucket of popcorn between themselves. Though she knows it may still be a long time before she will be welcome to join them, tonight the sight of her loved ones—all doing well and all gathered together to cheer on Jacob—gladdens her heart. When he sees the two of them walking hand in hand, Fred playfully elbows Maggie and tilts his head in Margaret and Brian's direction. Within seconds, it is obvious that the Langstons are all commenting on the unexpected sight of Margaret showing up on Brian's arm tonight, but it does not bother her in the least. To be the woman walking on Brian's arm makes her feel exceedingly proud and deeply humbled at the same time.

They make their way up to the empty top row of the bleachers, relishing the chance to have this evening mostly to themselves. Brian spreads the yellow blanket across their laps, and Margaret slips her hand into the crook of his arm, leaning into him slightly. Brian holds her other hand in his, occasionally losing himself in exploring the lines of her palm and the textures of her skin and committing every detail he can to memory.

Every now and then, Jacob looks up to the top row of the bleachers, and his sweet face lights up when he spots the two of them smiling back at him. Even Fred looks happy—though perhaps a little too amused—to see his mother looking so at ease every time he turns around to sneak a peek at her during the course of game.

She hugs Brian's arm a little tighter, and a smile forms on his lovely lips as he leans over and kisses her temple. She cannot begin to explain how everything had become so effortless between them, nor can she think of a better way to spend a Saturday evening; the fact that Jacob's team easily wins the game is just icing on the cake.

\---

They walk hand in hand through the park after the game. The chill in the night air, coupled with the warmth that always seems to radiate off Brian, draws Margaret a little closer to him. He drapes his arm around her shoulders, and she leans into him as he walks her back to her building. They walk at a leisurely pace, neither of them quite ready for the evening to come to an end.

When they arrive at her building, she stands on the first step so that she is almost at eye level with him. He gently lifts her chin and looks deep into those eyes he loves so much. He feels like the luckiest man in the world to have been able to see her eyes in so many different lights—in a quiet coffee shop in the early morning light, in the golden glow of sunset, in the soft glow of a candlelit dinner. Tonight he is mesmerized again as he looks at her eyes, shimmering like sapphires in the pale light of a full moon. The wind is blowing lightly, and he sweeps a stray lock of her hair away from her face.

"So, will I see you again?" he asks, and a dazzling smile slowly spreads across her face as she nods. He wraps his arms around her in a warm embrace, feeling instantly and completely calmed when he breathes in the scent of her perfume and feels her delicate fingers slowly curl into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"You called me 'sweetheart' earlier," she says softly.

He leans back slightly to look at her face, his arms still loosely wrapped around her small waist. "Yeah I did," he says, looking somewhat bashful. "Do you hate it?"

Other than her dad, Brian is the only person who has ever addressed her with any term of endearment. She smiles and shakes her head slowly. "No, I definitely don't hate it. Quite the opposite, actually."

He grins at that. "Well, that's good. Because I'm hoping I'll have the chance to call you that many, many more times."

"I hope so too," she replies, her voice low and slightly flirtatious. "Good night, Brian," she whispers.

He gives her a charming smile as he takes his leave. He walks a few steps before suddenly stopping and turning on his heel. She is still standing on the front steps of her building, and her heart flutters as she watches him walking back to her. Without any preamble, his fingertips slide up her neck, gently pulling her towards him so he can whisper in her ear.

"I'm absolutely crazy about you, Margaret. And I'll still feel the same way tomorrow." He presses a warm kiss to her cheek. "Sweet dreams, sweetheart," he whispers, leaving her breathless and slightly swooning.

\---

Hours later, she still feels as if she is floating on a cloud, and she knows that she won't be able to sleep tonight. The last two nights, she had been so racked with apprehension that sleep had stood no chance of finding her. Tonight, she cannot sleep because she is humming with the anticipation of seeing Brian again tomorrow and eager for tomorrow to begin right away. She stands on her balcony and finds it impossible to stop her eyes from filling with tears.

Brian had chosen her. Even before he had met her, he had wanted her. Even after she had told him the awful truth about herself and about her family, he hadn't stopped wanting her. He could have been anywhere else, with anyone else. And yet he was here, having gladly given up his picture-perfect life in California to be in small-town Arcadia. All because of her. And he'd been waiting for her ever since. She knows that it's now her turn to take a leap of faith. She drifts in and out of sleep for the next few hours, and when the sunrise is an hour away, she suddenly has the courage to tell Brian the answer to the question he had asked her last November. She dials Brian's number, and when he answers the phone, the clarity of his voice lets her know that he hasn't slept either.

"Do you have any plans for breakfast?" she asks expectantly, and she can almost hear him smiling through the phone when he cheerfully asks, "Where and when?"

\---

She waits outside her building for him, shivering from both the cold and from the eagerness to see him. When he finally arrives and says hello in that slightly breathless way of his, she briefly wonders if she is actually still asleep and dreaming.

They use the drive-thru at Common Grounds for the first time that morning, eager not to waste a single minute of their day. Sitting at the last red light at the edge of town, Brian reaches over and intertwines his fingers with hers. She studies his face for a moment before unbuckling her seat belt. She folds back the center console and slides into the jump seat, keen to be closer to him. His lips are slightly parted, his breath catching in his throat, and he feels positively euphoric at having her so close. He slowly runs his fingers through her perfect hair and tells her, "My God, you're beautiful." She slides into his embrace, leans her head against his shoulder, and closes her eyes when she feels his warm lips brush against her forehead.

The light turns green, and they drive out of Arcadia.

* * *

     They arrive at the lake a few minutes before the sunrise. A light mist is rising from the lake, and as Margaret walks a few paces behind Brian, the quiet morning takes on a dreamlike quality. Her heart is beating rapidly, but her courage and her hopefulness grow with each step. She sets down their coffees and takes a deep breath before closing the small distance that separates her from Brian. She slips her hand into his and the two of them stand at the end of the dock, silently looking east towards the dawn. The slight chill in the air causes her to shiver, and Brian unfurls the yellow blanket, silently enveloping the two of them in its warmth. Gently, he tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, his index finger tracing the shell of her ear, and she can feel his warmth radiating off him.

"Is this okay?" he asks in a voice just above a whisper.

She nods, her eyes remaining focused on the small area of exposed skin just inside the open collar of his shirt. "More than okay," she assures him, as she looks up to find him looking at her the same way he had three days ago, just before their lips had met for the first time.

She tentatively places her hands on his chest, and she can see the wonder and the wanting so clearly in his warm brown eyes. Her right hand stays on his chest, allowing her to feel the changing rhythms of his heartbeat, as her other hand slides up over his shoulder and her fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck. She raises herself onto her tiptoes, and their lips finally meet again in a long, lingering kiss. And when he pulls her closer, she opens her mouth to him, letting him in. The whole world just fades away as she listens to the sound of Brian breathing her in, so deep—creating another memory of her, a memory of the two of them. Through some rare and awesome trick of the universe, their lives had been running parallel to each other's ever since last autumn. Their paths had intersected but had never quite merged into one . . . until now.

When their kiss comes to an end, she can feel the two of them exhaling as one, finally able to let out the breath they've both been holding since November.

The first rays of the rising sun are dancing on the deep blue waters of the lake, but it is the sparkle in Margaret's incredible blue eyes that leaves Brian speechless. She rests her hands on his chest, and he kisses her forehead before resting his forehead against hers.

"So, how is this going to work?" she asks softly.

He smiles at the beautiful woman in his arms, caressing her cheek as he says, "I don't know. I just know that it will work. Because I know how I feel about you."

She looks at him with such tenderness and the unmistakable vulnerability when she says "I don't deserve you, Brian" in a trembling voice breaks his heart anew.

"You're right about that. You deserve someone really great. But if you're willing to settle for an ordinary guy like me . . ."

She feels a laugh bubbling up inside her, and she knows there's no use in trying to suppress it. She leans her forehead against his, and he kisses the tip of her nose as he commits this moment to memory: the first time—though he's determined it absolutely won't be the last time—he'd made Margaret laugh. His fingertips slowly trace along her jawline, and he gently lifts her chin so that he can look into her eyes when he tells her, "I'm absolutely crazy about you, Margaret. And I'll try every day to be someone really great. For you. I promise, sweetheart."

His voice is as warm and as gentle as his kisses. And she believes him.

"So," he says, taking her hand in his and running his thumb over the soft skin of her knuckles. "You and me? Let's give it a shot?" he asks, placing a feather-light kiss on the back of her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.

She thinks back to the question Brian had asked her all those months ago: _What is it you want, Margaret?_

Everything she has learned about Brian—his patience, his kindness, his sincerity, his generosity, his thoughtfulness, his joyfulness, his forgiveness—has only reinforced what she had somehow just always known, but had been too afraid to admit. It has taken her a long time to get here, and there are so many rivers still to cross, but Brian had always been part of the answer.

 _I want us_.

As she watches the sky changing hues with Brian that morning, it does not escape her notice that today is Easter Sunday, and she feels as if she has truly come back to life. _Perhaps third time's the charm_ , she thinks to herself, feeling completely overwhelmed by the knowledge that someone so perfect and whole had chosen her. She raises herself onto her tiptoes and presses a warm kiss to Brian's cheek. She breathes in the scent of his aftershave, and when he pulls her into a tight embrace and his fingers tangle in her hair, she can feel the relief and the joy in his breaths. Looking into Brian's warm brown eyes, the heartfelt and hopeful look she sees there makes her feel calm, makes her believe that anything is truly possible.

The sun rises over the verdant eastern hills as their lips find each other's once again. And she says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for “Something to Hold Onto”  
> 1\. You and Your Secrets by Brian Douglas Phillips  
> 2\. A Sunday Kind of Love by Etta James  
> 3\. High Hope by Glen Hansard  
> 4\. This Never Happened Before by Paul McCartney  
> 5\. Up And Up (Acoustic) by Relient K  
> 6\. Miracle Cure by Sea Wolf  
> 7\. Brighter Than Sunshine by Aqualung


	3. And Everything to Gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is the last day of what has been one whirlwind of a month, and she knows that she and Brian will share yet one more milestone with each other before month's end."

> We think that change occurs suddenly, but even I have learned better. Happiness is wild and arbitrary but it's not sudden.
> 
> —Anne Michaels, _Fugitive Pieces_

 

     The humidity is something he's still getting used to, and the cool rush of the air conditioning across his skin is a welcome relief when he walks into the coffee shop on Monday afternoon. It's been nothing but thunderstorms for days now, and he can smell the forecasted evening rain in the heavy, humid air.

He takes a seat at the small table in the corner, setting his phone face down since he already knows that he doesn't have any missed calls or any new messages. And staring at the image on his home screen will only worsen the sense of dread that has settled in the pit of his stomach. Running a hand through his hair, Brian stares out the window and his thoughts inevitably drift back to Margaret, with particular emphasis on what had happened between the two of them last night.

There are times when he still can't quite believe that Margaret had kissed him at sunrise on Easter and had actually agreed to give him a chance. The way she had whispered "Yes" to him—a word so small, yet brimming with such joy and such promise—is something he will never forget. And ever since that morning, he relives that moment, hearing her voice and experiencing that same elation every time she smiles at him.

Every moment from that Easter Sunday had felt like something out of a dream. He remembers the sight of Margaret sitting across from him on the dock that morning, wrapped in that yellow blanket, with the golden light of the sunrise behind her. They had shared a simple breakfast of croissants and hot coffee, with Brian playfully wiping croissant crumbs away from Margaret's lips and stealing a quick kiss or two. They had both been exhausted after having hardly slept the previous three nights, and Margaret had rested her head on Brian's shoulder as they sat together, with their legs dangling off the end of the dock. As he drove her home that morning, she had drifted in and out of sleep, and with her head resting on his shoulder, he could smell the faintest hint of vanilla in her hair.

When they arrived at her building, he had helped her out of the truck and she had held onto his hand, allowing him to walk her up the stairs to her front door for the first time. Kissing her cheek, he had told her to get some sleep and to give him a call if she wanted to have dinner together that evening. Once inside her apartment, she had closed her front door, leaning against it for a moment with a dreamy smile on her lips and Brian's kiss still warm on her cheek. She had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow and had slept late into the afternoon.

That evening, her hair was still slightly damp and wonderfully fragrant from a warm shower, and she had nervously tucked a loose tendril of it behind her ear as she stood on Brian's front porch. But her nervous energy had immediately transformed into a deep calm the moment Brian opened the door, greeting her with that handsome, boyish smile. She had walked through the front door and straight into Brian's open arms, and he had embraced her like he hadn't seen her in days, breathing her in so deeply.

"Hello, beautiful," he had whispered into her ear, sliding his arm around her waist as they walked to the kitchen together.

She had helped him prepare a small Easter dinner of spiral sliced ham, apricot-glazed carrots, and garlic mashed potatoes, and they had dined casually, sharing a bottle of Riesling at the kitchen island.

After dinner, they had stood side by side at the sink and washed the dishes together. Only on this night, when Brian placed the last dish on the drying rack and reached for her hands, Margaret had taken a step forward and towards him, leading the way with her soft lips and meeting Brian's in a long, lingering kiss. Joining her on the living room sofa, he had reclined against the back pillows with his head propped up on his elbow and smiled as he watched her sip her rooibos chai tea, with the sultry blend of spices—nutmeg, cinnamon, and a hint of cardamom—perfuming the small space between them. He could tell that they were both thinking about that night last November, when the two of them had been sitting exactly where they were sitting now. After everything that had happened in the interim, after all the times he thought he'd truly lost any chance of ever being with her, the fact that Margaret was actually sitting across from him took his breath away.

That night, they had once again walked hand in hand up the stairs, and when they arrived at her front door, Brian had bent down to kiss her cheek.

"You're wrong, you know," he'd said, as he tucked her dark hair behind her ear. "You are perfect and whole," he'd told her, ardently refuting what she had tearfully told him two days earlier. The way Margaret had smiled wistfully as she slowly shook her head had melted something inside him. He had gently lifted her chin, and in that flirtatious, yet sincere way of his, he had replied with, "I think you are."

Her smile had grown more and more radiant, until she could no longer contain her felicity. She was simply glowing and in that moment, the sound of Margaret's laugh was the most beautiful thing in Brian's world. Her hand had gently grasped at the placket of his shirt to pull him closer, and raising herself onto her tiptoes, she had kissed him deeply. His eyes were still closed and he was still completely lost in the breathtaking rapture of her kiss when she slipped her small hands into his. With her forehead pressed against his, her warm breath had caressed his lips as she whispered, "Good night, Brian. I'll see you tomorrow."

From that wonderful beginning, their springtime romance had been one of bright laughter and the most incredible kisses Brian has ever experienced. He and Margaret had settled into an easy routine that somehow managed to feel anything but routine. Their lives—characterized by morning coffee dates, Thursday night concerts at Common Grounds, Sunday morning strolls through the farmers' market, evening baseball games in the park, and night after night of long conversations and long kisses on his living room sofa—just came together seamlessly.

One week after their first kiss, he and Margaret had gone out for a late-night coffee and to hear Alex's band play their usual Thursday show at Common Grounds. He had made sure to find Alex and to put in a request for a specific song before the band went on stage, and after a good teasing from all the members of the band, they had been more than happy to oblige. This time, Brian hadn't hesitated in asking Margaret for a dance, and everything other than the two of them had simply ceased to exist the moment his hand met her waist and her fingers intertwined with his. Her eyes had sparkled so brilliantly under the colorful stage lights, and as he committed their first dance to memory, the song lyrics had never felt more fitting: this feeling had never happened to him before.

But the relationship they've built together had undergone a sea change last night. Though the unpleasantness that had marred the previous evening hadn't necessarily signaled the end of the early, carefree days of their relationship, its presence had brought Brian back down to earth. He had been floating on air for weeks, so wrapped up in Margaret and in their relationship that he had forgotten all about the outside world and its discontents. Last night, the outside world had found a way into his dream world, and it had rained down its cruelty on the person who has come to mean so much to him.

He feels like he could snap at any moment, as if the evening thunderstorm gathering in the dark clouds overhead is also raging inside him, his chest aching as the fragments inside attempt to rebuild themselves into something new. But he has no blueprint, and he is keenly aware that a piece of him is now missing. A piece that exists because of Margaret. A piece that can only be returned to him if she does.

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down, but a heaviness akin to grief weighs upon him. He can still feel the weight of Margaret's head against his chest, and the sound of her deep sobs echoes like thunder in his ears.

\---

 _The previous evening . . ._  
He's lost track of how many times he's dialed her number this evening. Once again, the phone rings for what seems like an eternity, and once again he's temporarily fooled by the sound of her voice before he realizes that his call has gone to voicemail. He walks outside and paces the entire length of the backyard a few times. There is a green tinge to the sky, and the distant rumble of thunder indicates that another evening of torrential downpours is on the way.

"Why isn't she answering her phone?" he asks himself, racking his brain for several minutes and coming up empty. _Something's not right._ He quickly heads back into the house, grabs his keys, and drives straight over to Margaret's.

The drive through town is a blur, and the next thing he knows, he's standing in the lobby of her building. He tries dialing her number again, and he can hear the faint ringing of her phone somewhere nearby.

Walking out to the courtyard, he finds Margaret sitting alone on the loveseat where they had shared their first kiss on that starry April night. His relief that she's okay quickly turns into concern. While the tension in her shoulders tells him that she would prefer to be left alone right now, walking away from Margaret is simply beyond Brian's capabilities at this point. He says her name gently, and her posture goes completely rigid. She turns and looks up at him, her apprehension imparting a pale grayness to her eyes. But just as quickly as it had come, the hardness of her gaze fades away when she sees the small bouquet of purple irises and pale pink tulips in his hand.

"Thank you," she says in an unsteady voice, when he hands her the flowers and takes a seat beside her. She holds the small bouquet as if it is a delicate artifact, and a painful tightness grips his chest when he sees her rapidly blinking away the tears in her watery eyes and pressing her trembling lips together tightly.

Suddenly it dawns on him why she's so upset.

"They didn't call."

He says the words, rather than asking them, and perhaps that only makes the situation worse. The neutral expression on her face may have fooled anyone else, but the way she shakes her head, slowly and heavy with sadness, doesn't fool him. He lets out a heavy sigh, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, even though his indignation makes him want to send his fist through the nearest brick wall.

"I'm sorry. I suppose going out to dinner sounds like the worst idea in the world right now. Would you like to come back to my house? We could pick up something on the way or we could order in. Or I could make dinner for you, whatever you want."

"You don't have to do all that for me," she tells him, and he worries that she's going to ask him to leave. But she turns to him and offers him a weak smile. "If you like, there are some pork chops that have been marinating in the fridge all afternoon. Come on up," she says, standing up and shyly holding her hand out to him.

He takes her hand, and she leads him up the stairs and into her apartment for the first time.

He lingers in the doorway of her kitchen, silently watching her arrange the flowers in a vase, before making his way into the living room and selecting a record from Alex's extensive collection. When he returns to the kitchen, he helps Margaret prepare dinner and set the table for two. They eat dinner and wash the dishes together mostly in silence. It is only when they are sitting together on her living room sofa and drinking their after-dinner tea that Margaret tentatively reaches for his hand.

"I'm sorry that I haven't been very good company tonight," she apologizes. "Things are still strained between me and my family. I didn't really expect for any of them to call. I was just hoping that they might make an exception for today."

"Don't apologize. I'm always glad to see you," he tells her, bringing her hand to his lips. "I'm sorry that things didn't work out the way you would've liked. Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

He can see that she's hurting, and though he doesn't want her to bottle it up inside, he doesn't want her to feel like he's trying to push her in directions she's not yet ready to go. So he continues to caress the back of her hand with his. And he waits.

Her eyes focus on their interlocked hands as she takes a deep, shaky breath. "When I was dying from cancer all those years ago, I fell into a coma. I could hear everything that was happening around me, so I knew that Henry visited every day during those two weeks and that Jacob was there too. But . . ." Her voice trails off, and he holds her hand a little tighter as she slowly regathers her strength. "I never heard Fred's voice. Not once. When I returned, Henry told me that Fred did come by the hospital every day. He just couldn't accept what was happening, couldn't bear to see me lying in that hospital bed and hooked up to all those machines. So he sat in the hallway outside my room. Every day. But I didn't know that at the time," she says, her voice quavering. "Fred and I were always at odds with each other; he was hardly even speaking to me after he and Barbara had eloped three years earlier. So, when I didn't hear his voice, no matter how hard I listened for it, I thought it meant that my son hated me. Or worse, that he just didn't care. And I felt like such a failure, a bad mother," she says, barely able to get the words out. "This . . . this feels a lot like that."

He feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him when Margaret sadly closes her eyes and her shoulders slump under the weight of her grief.

"You're not a failure. You're a good mom and a wonderful grandmother," he tells her, gently lifting her chin. "You're wonderful, Margaret."

Her face crumples at the kindness in his words and in his eyes, and she shakes her head dejectedly. "It seems you're the only person who believes that. Nobody else does," she says, her voice cracking.

"You'll always be wonderful to me," he promises, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek.

She places her hands on his shoulders, and he can feel the vulnerability in her touch in the few seconds before she hesitantly wraps her arms around him. Her kiss is feather-light against his cheek, and he feels his heart shatter when she buries her face in his neck.

He gathers her into his arms and slowly lays both of them down on the sofa. Unused to such tenderness, Margaret is understandably tense and resistant at first. His kindness and the ever-deepening affection she feels towards him have completely overwhelmed her. As Brian continues to soothingly rub her back, he can feel her struggling to keep her tears from falling. But her anguish has been steadily building for some time, and it finally escapes from somewhere deep within her. She buries her face in his chest, and he gently cradles her head against his heart. He tries to keep his own breathing as steady as possible, even as the sound of each of her ragged breaths cuts into him a little deeper. He wishes he knew what to say to make her feel better, but nothing he says can undo the hurt that's already been done to her; all he can do is kiss her soft hair and hold her as she cycles through her heartbreak. Eventually, her breathing calms, and her deep exhale signals that she has cried the last of her tears for the night.

She begins to sit up, but she freezes when she sees the way her tears and her mascara have stained his previously pristine white Oxford shirt. "Oh God, Brian, I've ruined your shirt. I'm really sorry," she apologizes, hanging her head in shame.

"Shh, don't worry about that, sweetheart. It's okay," he tells her in a soothing voice, while gently drying the tears from her damp cheeks. He can't explain the feeling that is building in his chest. It brings him no joy to see her looking so sad, but Margaret is breathtakingly beautiful when she cries. Her eyes are almost turquoise in their sadness. She looks so pale, so small, so young, and he feels every protective instinct flare up inside him. "You take my breath away," he whispers.

He watches her eyes change colors, as her sadness is gradually and entirely replaced with something else—something that causes her eyes to go as dark and glossy as onyx. She slides her hand up his chest and the warm skin of his neck, her fingernails grazing his skin just the slightest bit when she caresses his cheek. His heart rate increases when he breathes in the scent of her perfume on her wrist, and it increases even more when she sweeps her thumb—slowly, seductively—across his parted lips. He reaches behind her to remove the clip from her hair, and he forgets how to breathe as he watches her hair tumble down onto her shoulders.

Their lips come crashing together, and his hands make their way down to her waist as her lithe little body slides up along his. Her breasts are pressed firmly against his chest, and he cannot distinguish the pounding of her heart from his own. The hem of her shirt has ridden up just enough to let his fingertips discover the smallest sliver of the smooth skin beneath for the first time, and it takes every last ounce of willpower to keep his hands from diving underneath her shirt and moving upwards to fondle her breasts, especially when her tongue plunges into his mouth and the sound of her soft moan shoots straight to his groin. She slips her leg between his, and the inside of her thigh brushes against the part of his body that is responding most attentively to hers.

She inhales sharply, pressing her palms flat against his chest to abruptly prevent things from proceeding any further. Though his vision is slightly blurred from the searing heat that is still surging through his bloodstream, the look of embarrassment on Margaret's face is unmistakable. She had kissed him in a desperate and reckless fashion, and she had done so because she had wanted to—because she had wanted _him_. The intensity of her desire both exhilarates and frightens her.

He can feel her beginning to pull away, so he reaches up, sweeping her hair back so that he can look at her face, and his gentleness is just enough to halt the progress of her retreat. When she finally feels brave enough to look at him again, there is only the now-familiar warmth and fascination in Brian's eyes, and not the faintest trace of disappointment. He can see the relief in her shy smile, can feel it in the way that she lays her head back down on his chest and curls her fingers into the placket of his shirt. He kisses her forehead, wordlessly reassuring her that he is not upset with her in any way, and he maintains contact until he feels her body slowly relax against him. His fingertips draw lazy patterns up and down her back, and in no time at all, her slow, even breaths let him know that she's fallen asleep.

The steady patter of the rain against the living room windows lulls him in and out of sleep for the next few hours. When he wakes, it is a little after eleven o'clock. The rain has stopped, and Margaret is still nestled against him. As tempted as he is to remain exactly where he is until morning, Margaret hadn't invited him to spend the night. He briefly considers carrying her to her bedroom, but he decides against it; after all, tonight was the first time Margaret had even let him past her front door. So he carefully disentangles their bodies, and Margaret almost immediately pulls her arms tightly against her chest, shivering slightly from the loss of his body heat. There is a neatly folded quilt on the arm of the sofa, and he gently covers her sleeping form with it. Kneeling down, he kisses her cheek and an indescribable mix of profound contentment tinged with both sadness and longing washes over him as he stares at her face, so flawless and serene in the silvery moonlight.

"Sweet dreams, sweetheart. Happy Mother's Day," he whispers. He kisses her cheek again, breathing her in one last time, before he reluctantly walks out the door.

\---

 _The following afternoon . . ._  
As he sits and waits for Margaret, he finds his hands nervously fidgeting with anything within arm's reach. He had tried calling her at lunchtime to ask her if she'd like to meet him for coffee when she gets off work. Hours later, his voicemail remains unanswered and he's sitting alone at the small corner table.

He knows Margaret well enough to understand that it hadn't been easy for her to do what she did last night—letting him see her at her most raw and vulnerable and trusting him enough to open her hurting heart to him—and that in the sobering light of day, her first instinct will most likely be to put her defenses up and shut him out. He had discovered one of her secrets when he'd sat beside her on Valentine's Day and again when he'd walked away from her on Good Friday: the one thing Margaret never wants him to feel towards her is indifference; he suspects that pity is a close second.

But his decision to leave her apartment before she woke hadn't been driven by any sense of embarrassment or dissatisfaction, and he prays she doesn't feel like he had taken advantage of her or her heartache in any way last night. This newly discovered, all-consuming need inside him to protect Margaret in whatever ways he can doesn't stem from pity, but from a genuine care for her. He only hopes that he hasn't run out of chances to look into Margaret's beautiful blue eyes and tell her all the things he still needs to say to her.

He glances anxiously at his phone: no new messages, no missed calls, just the photo of a smiling Margaret and Jacob after one of Jacob's baseball games staring back at him. It's now a little after five o'clock. In a few minutes, he'll have his answer.

When Margaret walks into the coffee shop that afternoon, wearing a knee-length sleeveless dress, Brian feels the air rushing out of his lungs at the sight of her. And he immediately takes back all of his previous complaints about the Missouri heat. Margaret's hair, seemingly set aflame by the light of the setting sun behind her, cascades softly over her bare shoulders. His eyes roam all over her incredibly toned arms and legs, utterly enthralled by the constellations of summer freckles on her exposed skin. The neckline of her dress extends the long and tantalizing column of her neck, drawing his attention ever lower. His eyes are fixated on tracking the glistening of sweat that begins along the perfect curve of her clavicle, trailing down her upper chest and into—what he can only imagine and what his lips suddenly long to explore is—the flawlessly smooth skin between her breasts, before it disappears beneath the pristine white material of the dress's split neckline. His gaze continues to drift farther down, coming to rest on the belt of her dress, neatly knotted around that slender waist of hers. Which only leads his mind into all kinds of pleasant daydreams, all of them involving the achingly slow untangling of the knot and unwrapping Margaret like a long-awaited Christmas present.

He greets her with his customary quick kiss on her cheek, not anticipating that she will ever publicly return even his smallest gesture of affection. But he's pleasantly surprised when her right hand lingers on his upper arm, keeping him close as the fingertips of her left hand graze across the light stubble on his cheek. And just as she had done last night, her thumb slowly sweeps across his slightly parted lips as a smile spreads across her own. It is a physical gesture that she has only ever shared with him, another intimacy that exists only between the two of them. The realization causes an intense jolt of desire to shoot straight through him, leaving him simultaneously winded and yet calmed by her touch. He loses himself in her eyes, in the ring of gold that he has just this moment noticed surrounding her pupils. And he feels his worries dissipate. Margaret isn't putting her defenses up or pushing him away after last night. Instead, the tenderness in her blue eyes and the sureness in her touch let him know that they have taken a step forward and, more importantly, always towards each other.

* * *

     The sun is beginning to set, and Margaret is watering the plants on her balcony and debating what to make for dinner when her phone rings. Setting the watering can down on the patio table, she picks up her phone and is pleasantly surprised to see that it's Fred calling.

"Hi, Ma!" he greets her, cheerfully. "Listen, if you don't have any plans for this evening, feel free to swing by the house at some point. Henry and Lucille went out for a romantic dinner, and the M&M's dropped Jenny off on the way to their romantic dinner, so good ole Uncle Fred is on babysitting duty tonight," her younger son says in a lighthearted tone, and she can hear Jacob and Jenny giggling in the background. "Dinner should be ready in about half an hour if you're in the mood for grilled chicken with broccoli and macaroni and cheese. Do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, that won't be necessary," she says, walking back inside her apartment and shutting the balcony doors behind her. "I appreciate the offer, Fred, but I'm not sure my coming over is such a good idea. I don't imagine the others would be thrilled about me being there."

"Don't worry about that, Ma. Come over and have dinner with your favorite son and your grandson. We'll see you in half an hour," he says, hanging up before she can protest.

\---

Half an hour later, Margaret finds herself standing outside the Langston house for the first time in months. She hesitates at the bottom of the porch steps, trying to shake off the unpleasant memories that have suddenly come flooding back: all those unhappy years as Mrs. Warren Langston, when this house had felt like a prison, that horrible confrontation with Henry after he found out the truth about his family and threw her out of the house, the way Jacob had looked at her that night when Preacher James had stood outside and the chaos that had ensued. And of course, there had been the following night, when everything had seemed so hopeless and she had very nearly let go. It's almost enough to make her sink to her knees, and she seriously considers getting back into the car and driving off.

But when she looks through the window, she can see Fred, Jacob, and Jenny laughing together as they set the table for dinner, and she tries to focus on all the good memories associated with this house: building a little snowman in the backyard with Fred when it snowed that one Christmas, Jacob taking his first wobbly steps across the living room and into her arms, that sunny autumn morning when she had walked into the kitchen and a man called Brian had greeted her with his handsome smile.

She walks up the porch steps and takes a deep breath as she rings the doorbell. The door opens slowly, her grandson cautiously peeking out from behind it, and his face breaks into a huge smile when he sees her.

"Grandma!" he exclaims, and she kneels down to catch him when he runs into her arms. He presses a warm kiss to her cheek and hugs her tightly. "Uncle Fred didn't tell me you'd be coming over! Are you staying for dinner?"

She nods, smiling brightly as she runs her hands through Jacob's messy brown hair. Fred and Jenny come to the door, and Jenny politely says hello before Fred tells the children to hurry inside and wash their hands for dinner. He steps out onto the porch, greeting Margaret with a smile and holding out his hand to help her to her feet. His eyes narrow slightly as his attention shifts to the red car parked at the end of the driveway.

"Don't worry. I didn't have a mid-life crisis and make an extravagant purchase. It's Alex's car. She let me borrow it for tonight," Margaret explains.

Alex has always been generous and accommodating towards her, so Margaret hadn't necessarily been surprised when Alex had tossed her the keys to the Cadillac. What had surprised her was that, before this evening, she hadn't even known that there was a garage under the apartment building. Or that, in addition to the Jeep Grand Cherokee that she always drove, Alex was also the owner of a red Cadillac CTS-V and a Chrysler 300C John Varvatos Limited Edition. As Arcadia's sheriff, Fred makes it his business to have a good read on all of the town's residents. Alex Juilliard, though, remains a mystery; the only thing that is obvious to everyone is that Alex is far too smart and far too wealthy to be working at the local library.

"Eccentric millionaire," Fred mutters, repeating the nickname he and his deputies have chosen for Alex, as he and Margaret walk inside.

She takes a seat next to her grandson and leaves most of the talking to the other three people gathered around the dining table. Jacob and Jenny talk excitedly about how much they're looking forward to the end of the school year, with Jacob still as enthusiastic as ever about his Little League Baseball team and Jenny showing everyone some of the art projects Elaine has been helping her with. Even Fred is in a cheerful mood, and it brings a smile to Margaret's face to hear the pride in Fred's voice whenever he talks about Maggie and to know that her family is doing well.

"How have you been, Mrs. Langston?" Jenny asks, polite as ever, and there are so many things about Jenny's question that take Margaret by surprise. It certainly surprises her that anyone, let alone this little girl, is interested in hearing about how things are going in her life. And after so many months of being addressed almost exclusively by her first name, the fact that Jenny had addressed her as "Mrs. Langston" had also caught her off guard. The title sounds somewhat foreign to her ears now, as if it belongs to someone she vaguely remembers from her past. She answers Jenny's question with a simple and honest reply that everything has been going well, and perhaps it is the uplifting feeling that accompanies sharing good news with others that surprises her the most.

After dinner, Jacob and Jenny head into the living room to watch a movie, and Margaret heads to the kitchen to do the dishes. Fred follows closely behind her and leans against the kitchen island with his arms folded. She notices the furrow in his brow getting deeper with each passing second, and she gets the feeling that Fred had invited her over because he needs to talk to her about something. And judging by the look on his face, the conversation is not going to be a particularly pleasant one. She reminds herself not to let her temper get the better of her; even if Fred wants to talk about things she would rather not discuss, at least he is still talking to her, which is a lot more than she can say about Henry.

"Well? Are we not going to talk about where Brian Addison happens to be this evening? And with whom?" Fred asks.

She continues loading the dishwasher, busying her hands and avoiding his questions. She knows the answers to both of Fred's questions, and though she's not particularly thrilled about the situation, she doesn't appreciate what Fred is implying with his line of questioning.

In a tone that is far too insolent for Margaret's liking, Fred continues. "Well, if I had to put money on it, I'd say he's spending his evening with the same lady I saw him having coffee with this afternoon. You do know who I'm talking about: attractive, blonde, goes by the name Julia Westfield. Although, for a few years in the early 1980s, she was—"

"Brian's ex-wife, I know. None of this is news to me, Frederick," she snaps, her irritation obvious from the way she had used his full name and the loud clattering of the silverware into the dishwasher. "And as for tonight, he is having dinner with Julia _and_ her husband. They're visiting St. Louis for the 40-year reunion of Douglas's MBA class at the Olin Business School, and the three of them made these dinner plans together months ago. So, will you please modify your tone and stop making it sound like Brian and Julia are up to something? She is happily married to Douglas."

"Just like Brian's happily in a relationship with you, right?" Fred asks, his voice dripping with malice.

It is as if a bomb has suddenly gone off in the room, and Margaret flinches as if Fred had physically flung his hurtful words at her. Too stunned to speak, she slowly turns away from Fred and stares out the kitchen window. There is a piercing ringing in her ears, and her hands grip the counter so hard that her knuckles turn white and ache from the effort. It breaks her heart to hear her own son say those words out loud, to give voice to the same question that has been eating away at her ever since she and Brian had their first fight this afternoon.

She winces when Fred places a hand on her shoulder, startling her out of her thoughts. Her expression softens almost immediately when she sees the guilt-ridden look on her younger son's face. She had recoiled at his touch, and she can see that he thinks it was due to the memory of how roughly he had grabbed her by the arm the last time the two of them were standing here.

"I'm sorry, Ma. I shouldn't have said that," he apologizes in earnest. "When I saw him with another woman this afternoon, I thought . . ."

He doesn't continue with that thought, not when he sees the crestfallen look on Margaret's face, and he cannot recall a time when he's ever seen his formidable mother looking so fragile. Ever since he was a boy, he had been so single-minded when it came to defying her at every turn, always finding new ways of getting into trouble and then shouting hateful things at her whenever she got onto him about his unacceptable behavior. Over the years, he had seen his mother standing in this exact same way, in this exact same spot—hands tightly gripping the counter, shoulders tense, head hung in defeat. More often than not, he had been the cause of it.

But tonight was the first time he had glimpsed her reflection in the window, and there was no mistaking the turmoil in her eyes. Before tonight, it had never even occurred to him that she had most likely wept in silence in this exact same spot every single time he had spouted venom at her and stormed out of the house. Suddenly, he understands that he has only begun to scratch the surface, that the depths of heartache and loneliness his mother had suffered through the decades are too profound for words.

And if one thing is obvious to Fred, even if it is not yet obvious to Margaret, it is that his mother really likes Brian. He had always seen his mother as a tower of strength, and that had impaired his ability to ever see her as fully human. Now, however, he sees that his mother has always been her own worst critic. He can see it in the way she had reacted, in the pain and the uncertainty his insinuations had caused her: not only does she believe that Brian Addison deserves someone better than her, she fears that everyone else believes it too.

"I was being incredibly unfair, and that was wrong of me. Brian didn't exactly come into our lives under the best of circumstances. But he's a decent guy, and I believe that he genuinely cares about you."

"But that's not the same thing as being happy with me, is it?" she asks with her eyes downcast. Her usually steadfast voice is the least confident he's ever heard it that it breaks his heart. "I don't know whether Brian's "happily in a relationship with me" or not. But even if he's not, I don't think . . ." She lets out a heavy sigh, but she boldly meets his eye. "I _know_ that he would never hurt me like that. He just wouldn't."

Fred gives her a reassuring smile and nods. "I think he's happy, Ma. I can see it in the way he looks at you. If I'm being completely honest, I don't think I ever looked at Barbara the way that Brian looks at you. And I know that Dad never looked at you that way."

He has already brought his mother to the brink of tears this evening, and he knows that where he's steering their conversation next will most likely cause the tears she's been holding back to finally fall. "Speaking of Dad . . ." he begins, removing something from his shirt pocket and placing it on the counter next to Margaret's hand.

She pulls her hand away immediately, as if the gold wedding ring Fred has just set on the counter is laced with poison, and there is no mistaking the flash of terror, however brief, in her eyes.

"He hasn't returned," Fred assures her. But before she can even catch her breath and breathe a sigh of relief, he looks her in the eye and asks, "What happens if he does?"

"Why would you ask me that?" she asks, sounding so heartbroken before a blinding anger overtakes her. "Why would you ask me that?" she repeats, yelling the question at him this time.

"Because I want to finally get to know my mother! Just answer the question, damn it!" he shouts at her, before immediately holding his hands up in apology when he sees the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. Look, I'm not asking you this to be cruel. I'm not trying to hurt you. And it's not like I'm just waiting around for Dad to come back. Jesus! I'm not five years old anymore, Ma! I don't need my parents to be together and to carry on with some ridiculous charade of a marriage for Henry's and my sake. I'm asking the question because I genuinely want to know what you would do. What happens if Dad comes back? And what about Brian? How would he fit into the picture? Or does he just go away?"

"Stop it! Stop fighting!"

She and Fred both look over to the doorway of the kitchen, where Jacob is standing with his hands covering his ears. Margaret immediately puts on a brave face, but there's no preventing Jacob from noticing the tears on her cheeks, and his hands ball into angry fists, his usually warm brown eyes now coldly looking daggers at Fred.

"Why are you being mean to her? Just leave her alone, you jerk!" he yells.

"Jacob! Don't you dare talk to your uncle that way!"

Jacob's glare is redirected at Margaret before he looks down at his feet, confused and angry at being scolded. His jaw is clenched tightly as he tries to keep himself from crying. She says his name in the most soothing tone she can, but he quickly turns and runs out of the room.

Quietly, Fred comes to stand next to her. There is a haunted look in Margaret's eyes and a tremble in her lips as she stares at the gold wedding ring she thought she had seen for the last time when she left it and this house behind half a year ago. "I don't want your father to come back, Fred," she confesses in a broken voice, wiping her eyes. "I really don't."

"I know," he says sympathetically. "Honestly, I don't know if I want him to come back either. And for what it's worth, I think it's great that you and Brian are . . . together."

There is still a faint trace of sadness in her eyes when she looks up at him, smiling in slight disbelief, but there is also a lightness to her that he's never seen before.

"I think one of the reasons why the thought of Dad returning upsets you so much is because you have real feelings for Brian and because you care about what he thinks, what he feels, what he wants. If Dad comes back, you'll have to make a decision. And whatever you choose to do, do it for yourself. Not for Jacob or Henry or Brian, but for you. What you think and feel and want—those things are important too, you know," he says with such gentleness and encouragement in his voice. "Listen, I know we hardly ever see eye to eye on anything, but I want you to be happy. Really happy. And if Dad does return and you go back to him, after everything you told me about how much you hated him and how miserable you were with him, it'll be the first time that I'm truly disappointed in you."

She places a hand on his shoulder and lingers beside him for a few seconds. It's the most civil they've been towards each other in years, and the smile he gives her transforms his entire face, reminding her of the sweet little boy he'd been all those years ago, whose bear hugs and bright laughter had always revitalized her day.

"I'll finish cleaning up in here. Go spend some time with your grandson," he tells her. He may have reverted back to his normal, detached tone, but as she turns to leave, Fred quickly kisses her cheek and says good night.

\---

She opens the front door to find Jacob curled up on the porch swing.

"Hello there. May I join you?" she asks, trying her best to sound cheerful, but Jacob simply shrugs his shoulders dismissively in reply. She takes a seat and sweeps his messy brown hair out of his eyes. "You know, Jacob, sometimes adults have to talk about things that are unpleasant. Things we'd rather forget because they make us sad or angry. Your uncle and I have always argued, and we still do. A lot. But that doesn't mean that we hate each other or that—"

"Is Brian going away?" Jacob interrupts her, angrily jumping off the porch swing. "Because that's not fair! He's my friend! We're buddies! He tells me that I'm his best buddy all the time!"

She pulls her grandson into her arms, hugging him tightly and kissing his hair when she hears him sniffling softly. He holds her hand as they walk to the front of the porch and sit down side by side at the top of the steps, just like they used to do after dinner all those years ago. Jacob hugs his knees to his chest, and Margaret strokes his hair as she asks, "What makes you think Brian's going away?"

He frowns as he struggles to find the words to describe what he's feeling. "Because mom and dad are out at dinner together, and so are Maggie and Marty. Why are you and Brian not having dinner together?"

"Because he made dinner plans with someone else. And we had an argument about it."

\---

 _Earlier that day . . ._  
She leaves the library at noon and is a few yards away from the coffee shop when the sound of Brian's laugh catches her attention. The plan had been to meet at the hardware store, so she's surprised to even see Brian sitting at one of the outdoor tables, instead of sitting at their usual corner table inside. But even more surprising is the fact that he doesn't seem to be waiting for her at all. And he's also not alone.

There is a woman in a Kelly green summer dress sitting across from Brian, her skin sun-kissed from a recent vacation to Barbados, and her hazel eyes crinkle up at the corners as she laughs along with him. Margaret can feel her heart palpitating, and she can hear the blood rushing in her ears as she approaches their table. Her uneasiness temporarily subsides when she realizes that there is another gentleman seated at the table with them and when Brian stands up from his seat and greets her with a cheerful smile, only to come roaring back when he doesn't kiss her cheek the way he usually does. Her feelings of jealousy and insecurity only increase from there, for as friendly and as pleasant as Julia and Douglas Westfield are, there is no flash of recognition in their eyes at the mention of her name. It's glaringly obvious to Margaret that this is the first time they've ever heard of her. She honestly can't say how she would have preferred to be introduced to Brian's tall, attractive, well-attired, and golden-haired ex-wife and her husband. But somehow, being introduced simply as Margaret Langston, with no further explanations or conversation starters, leaves her feeling cold.

For the next half hour, the conversation and the company are enjoyable enough, even if Margaret feels like the odd man out. She has not been a part of their decades-long friendship and therefore cannot reminisce about their road trips along Highway 1 or commiserate with them about the travel experience out of LAX or share in their joy when they discuss the Westfields' three children. She sits beside Brian that afternoon, smiling pleasantly and with her hand so close to his but never touching, and it is the first time she has felt resentment towards him.

"Well, the two of us should start heading out if we're going to put in an appearance at the cocktail reception," Julia says, slipping her arm into Douglas's as they stand up to leave. She smiles warmly as she shakes Margaret's hand and tells her how nice it was to meet her before turning to Brian and telling him that they'll see him later tonight.

As soon as the Westfields have driven off, she angrily gets up from the table and begins walking briskly towards her apartment building. Brian follows closely behind her, his height and long stride making it easy for him to keep pace with her, and tries to engage her in conversation, but she categorically refuses to speak to him until they're in the semi-privacy of the building's courtyard. There is a burning sensation in her throat, and she doesn't know whether she can trust herself not to scream at him, or even worse, to dissolve into a fit of tears. Catching herself having a moment of weakness, she reverts back to her old habit of masking her hurt feelings with anger.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What are you talking about?"

She turns around and looks at him with a frown when she says, "I was under the impression that you were going to be in St. Louis for business tonight."

"I said I was attending an event at the Olin Business School. I never said it was for work. You're the one who made the assumption that it was," he says, clearly taking exception to her accusatory tone.

"An assumption you made no attempt to correct," she says angrily. "You talked about this dinner like it was an obligation. Now I find out that you misled me about what you're actually doing tonight. If they hadn't shown up here this afternoon, would you have ever told me?"

"If it was with anyone other than Julia, would we even be having this conversation? Is that what this is really about?" he asks, his mounting frustration imparting an edginess to his voice.

"That is not even remotely the point!" she says, raising her voice. "I know that you have an ex-wife and that the divorce was amicable and that the two of you are still friends. I don't care that you're having dinner with her; what upsets me is that I had to find out about it from someone other than you."

"Do you not want me to go to this dinner? Is that it? Because I'll cancel if that's what you want."

"No, that is not what I'm saying, and don't you dare make me the bad guy in this. Don't!"

She massages her temples for a moment before letting out a sigh. "Listen, Brian," she starts, "we're two people of a certain age who met at a specific point in time. I've accepted the reality that you had a life before you came to Arcadia that I will never know, that I will never get to be a part of. But this is the first time that it feels like there are parts of your life that you're deliberately keeping off limits to me. How am I not supposed to feel insulted by that? It's like there's something you're trying to hide, or like you're ashamed of something." _Or of someone_.

He shakes his head, clenching his jaw tightly in annoyance. "This is ridiculous! I'm being accused of having something to hide? That's a bit rich, coming from you," he scoffs, and he immediately regrets it when she looks right through him. "I'm so sorry, Margaret, I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it."

"How dare you?" she asks, her voice sounding so broken. "I trusted you with that, and you didn't even hesitate to use it against me," she says, blinking her eyes rapidly and pressing her lips together tightly. "You may not have lied to me, but it feels like you did."

He looks up at her with the most shattered expression. "Sweetheart—"

"Just go, Brian," she says, as she takes a step backwards and away from him. The tremble in her small, sad voice makes him want to pull her into his arms, but the steel gray color of hurt and betrayal in her eyes leaves no room for negotiation. She wants an apology, yet she can't bear to hear one at this moment. And the use of that particular term of endearment is almost enough to make her break down in sobs. "If you don't really want to be here, then I don't want you here either. I think you've made it pretty clear where you'd rather be this evening . . . and with whom. Please just go."

Walking away from him had been an agonizing experience, her heart crumbling to dust with each step. Suddenly it was as if she was standing all alone on the dock again, the events of the past weeks nothing more than a beautiful dream.

\---

 _Back to now . . ._  
Jacob slides closer to her, and she puts her arm around him. He looks up at her with such innocent concern for her in his warm brown eyes. "Are you mad at him?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Not really. I suppose I'm more sad than angry. I knew that Brian would be going to St. Louis this evening, but I thought it was for a business function. Then, this afternoon Brian's friends came through Arcadia on their way to St. Louis, and that's when I found out that Brian's actually having dinner with his friends tonight," she says, giving him a sad smile. "I don't mind that he's having dinner with them—Julia and Douglas, they're really nice people—but I wish he'd told me about it from the start."

"You're sad because it feels like Brian kept a secret from you," Jacob says plainly. "I'm tired of secrets, too. They make you feel lonely." His perceptiveness catches her by surprise, and she can only nod, hugging him a little tighter. He looks up at her again, his brow still knitted with confusion. "So . . . are you and Brian girlfriend and boyfriend? Like Maggie and Marty are?"

She smiles at that, blushing lightly. "I think Brian and I are a little old for that, don't you think?"

Jacob just shrugs his shoulders. "Mom always calls Brian your boyfriend. And I know that he really likes you."

"Did he tell you that?" she asks, gently and also hopeful.

"No . . . well, kind of. When dad and I met Brian at the factory last fall, he seemed like a nice guy. He smiled, but I got the feeling that he was angry about something. But when he came here the first time, when he was walking back to his truck, he looked back at you and he smiled. I didn't feel like he was angry anymore. It was the way he smiled. It was different from the way he smiled at me and dad. His smiles are a lot bigger when he looks at you and when he talks about you," he tells her. "And he holds your hand all the time."

"Well, I'm an old woman. Maybe he just wants to make sure that I make it across the street safely," she says in a teasing tone and mussing his hair in an attempt to lighten the mood.

He rolls his eyes at that and gives her a grin. "You're not old, Grandma! You're younger than mom and dad are!" he exclaims, causing a laugh to burst from her. "And besides, isn't that what we do for the people we care about? Try to keep them safe?"

"You know, sometimes I think you may be too smart for your own good. You're certainly the smartest nine-year-old in Arcadia," she tells him with playful tap on his nose.

He lays his head in her lap and plays with her hands, comparing the lines on their palms, for a minute or two. But when he looks up at her, there is deep worry in his eyes when he asks her, "If you and Brian don't stay together, does that mean he wouldn't be buddies with me anymore? Would he stop coming to my baseball games?"

"Oh, Jacob," she sighs, her heart shattering for her perfect little grandson as she caresses his cheek. "Whatever happens, I'm sure that Brian will still want to come to your baseball games and that he'll always want to see you. You're his best buddy, remember?"

"But," Jacob begins, sitting back up, "Dad said that Brian used to live in California before he came here. Do you think he'd go back there?" he asks in a worried voice.

"I don't know," she answers quietly, shaking her head slowly and looking down the dark, empty street. The idea makes her feel suddenly dizzy with panic. "I hope not. But it would also be really difficult . . . too difficult . . . to see him all the time and to know that he doesn't want to be with me anymore."

She doesn't realize that she's said those words out loud until she feels Jacob press a warm kiss to her cheek and wrap his arms around her neck. "Why wouldn't he want to be with you?" he asks tearfully. "Is it because of our family? Because of what happened at the factory? Did he find out about that?"

"No, Jacob, it's not because of that," she tells him, gathering him into her lap and cradling his head gently against her chest. The last thing she wants is for Jacob to feel guilt over yet another thing that he was in no way responsible for. "Brian knows about what really happened, because I told him about it weeks ago. I guess I was tired of secrets and tired of feeling lonely, too. And I don't know how or why, but he doesn't blame me. For any of it."

"Then why would he have to go away if my grandfather comes back?" he asks in a small, confused voice.

"Your uncle was just asking me what I would do if your grandfather returns. I don't have any control over what Brian would choose," she tells him despondently, drying his cheeks. "Wouldn't you like to meet your grandfather?"

He looks up at her with a frown and solemnly shakes his head.

"It's okay, Jacob. You can tell me the truth, you know. Nothing's off limits between us. I didn't love your grandfather, but you wouldn't be hurting my feelings if you want to meet him."

"But I don't want to meet him! I don't care about him! And I couldn't love him!" he says angrily.

"What? Why not?" she asks, surprised not only at his choice of words, but the conviction with which he had said them.

"Because he didn't love you," he says without any hesitation. "And I do. I love you lots."

He buries his face in her chest, and she hugs Jacob to her tightly, wishing that she could hold onto her perfect little grandson forever. She feels buoyed by his words, comforted to know that the person she loves most in this world will always love her in return. She has loved her grandson fiercely from the first moment she held him, and he heals her heart every day. And if what Jacob said is true—that he couldn't love someone who couldn't love her—she dares to hope that perhaps Henry doesn't truly hate her after all. 

But she knows it is only a matter of minutes before the others will arrive at the house and that it is still a long and slow road to reconciliation. Though it breaks her heart to have to do it, she tells Jacob, "It's getting late. I should get going." 

"I wish you didn't have to go. I wish I got to see you more," he protests, holding onto her hands when she gets up to leave.

She kneels down and gives his hands a gentle squeeze. "No matter where I am, I'll always be thinking about you. I love you, Jacob. You'll never know just how much," she says, giving him one more hug, breathing him in one more time. "Good night, my special boy."

He presses a warm kiss to her cheek, hugging her as tightly as he can, and says, "Good night, Grandma. I love you, too. And I want you to be really, really happy."

As she walks down the driveway, she remembers something Jacob had said and it brings a smile to her lips. She continues walking towards the car, but she makes sure to look back over her shoulder at Jacob and smile. And she is rewarded with the sight of his sweet face breaking into a huge and knowing smile. He blows her a kiss from the top of the porch steps, and she waves goodbye as she drives away.

* * *

     It is almost midnight when she finishes drying her hair and heads to the kitchen to make herself a late-night cup of tea. She fills the kettle and just as she places it on the stove, her cellphone rings. It's Brian calling, and she doesn't know whether to feel apprehensive or relieved. But she takes a deep breath and says hello.

He had been holding his breath as he waited for her to answer, and the way his words come out in a breathless rush when he tells her, "It's so good to hear your voice" leaves her feeling equally breathless and all aflutter.

"I, um . . . I just got back into town, and I was just going to drive straight home. But I didn't want to end the day with the two of us not speaking to each other. I know it's late, but I'd really like to see you. Can we talk? In person?"

She doesn't respond, and he can feel the tension creeping back into his shoulders.

"Margaret?" he sighs. "Look, I know that I made a mess of things this afternoon. I can understand if you don't want to see me right now—"

"Brian, it's not that I don't want to see you. It's just that it's late, and I was just about to turn in for the night," she admits, sounding somewhat flustered.

He's equal parts relieved that she isn't furious with him and anxious that she will inevitably tell him that any conversation between the two of them will simply have to wait until tomorrow. Even through the phone, he can tell that she is chewing her bottom lip the way she always does whenever she's working out what to say or do next. It's just one thing on a seemingly endless list of endearing things about her, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"I do want for us to talk. Come upstairs," she says.

\---

She is nervously pacing the entryway of her apartment when Brian softly knocks. After taking a couple of deep, cleansing breaths, she slowly opens the door halfway. The smile on Brian's face gives way to a more serious expression, and she winces.

It's the first time that she has allowed him to see her looking less than picture-perfect. She had considered putting off their conversation until tomorrow morning. Or, at the very least, postponing it until she had had a chance to make herself presentable. But her desire to see him had been too compelling, and she had momentarily forgotten about the current state of her appearance until she hung up the phone and suddenly realized that there was no way to avert the oncoming disaster.

And now Brian is standing here at her door, looking so handsome in his perfectly tailored suit, whereas she has never felt more underdressed and overexposed. Though her satin robe has her completely covered, she defensively gathers both sides of the shawl collar even more tightly together over her chest with a clenched fist. A painful lump forms in her throat, and she can feel herself rapidly wilting under the intensity of his gaze.

But the significance of this moment is not lost on Brian, and the rareness, the intimacy of it only enhance the incredible beauty of the woman standing before him. The exquisite sight of her dark hair—lustrous and a bit wild in its naturally wavy state—spilling onto the navy blue satin covering her slender shoulders leaves him breathless. She doesn't have an ounce of makeup on, the fine lines on her face are more noticeable, her eyes and lips don't have quite the same pop to them, but she is still the most beautiful woman Brian has ever seen.

He can see it in the shifting hues of her eyes and in the deep blush that scorches her ears and her neck that her confidence is rapidly plummeting. She nervously shifts her weight, leaning against the door to steady herself, and it only draws Brian's attention to the appealing contours of her hips and down the long line of her fantastic legs, his pulse skyrocketing at the sight of her perfectly polished red toenails.

"My God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and the smokiness of his voice and in his eyes makes her go weak at the knees.

She smiles shyly and opens the door the rest of the way so that he can come inside. With the two of them standing so close to each other in the small space of the entryway, he gently grasps her fingertips with an apologetic smile, and for a few charged seconds, simply being with him and breathing in the refreshing scent of his cologne almost makes her believe that everything is right with the world again.

"I was just about to make some tea. Would you like one?" she asks, letting go of his hand and walking back to the kitchen to turn on the stove.

"Yeah, that sounds good," he replies after her, as he removes his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack.

The French doors leading out to the balcony are open, and the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle float across the room to him on the light, springtime breeze.

When Margaret returns from the kitchen, she finds Brian standing outside. Under different circumstances, she would have joined him, but the sense of dread that has plagued her all evening rears its ugly head again. She isn't sure what she should say or do right now, so she remains inside, silently watching him—necktie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a smile on his handsome face—as he peruses the various flower boxes on her balcony. But the silence only seems to widen the distance between them, and her longing for him grows ever more acute with each passing second.

"And who is this?" he asks cheerfully, kneeling down to pick up the striped kitten that has been roaming her balcony for the past week.

"A stray, I suppose," she responds with a small shrug. "I found her sleeping in the daisies a few mornings ago, so I've been calling her Daisy."

"Margaret and Daisy," he says with a soft laugh. "That's adorable."

"It's silly, I know," she says in a small voice, giving him a furtive glance as she self-consciously runs a hand through her damp hair.

"No, it's a good name! It's just that Daisy is sometimes used as a nickname for Margaret. I think it comes from the French word for the daisy: _marguerite_. I didn't mean to make it sound like I was teasing you in any way," he explains with an affable smile.

At that moment, a sharp pang of melancholy suddenly strikes her heart, and she finds herself thinking about Ben for the first time in weeks. He had taken French lessons growing up, and she wonders if he had known that fact, if it had been the reason why he had always sent her pressed daisies in his letters. She honestly can't recall ever mentioning to Ben that she liked daisies. Was that why he had sent that particular flower to her? Or had she developed a love for daisies _because_ he had sent them to her?

She shakes her head sadly. She doesn't want to think about Ben. Not right now. Thinking about Ben had always been a safe haven for her, a coping mechanism of sorts that had enabled her to survive the worst of times. But there had always been an unfathomable loneliness about how desperately she had needed those memories, about how desperately she had clung to them through the years. And there is something infinitely more heartbreaking about feeling that same loneliness now. She is here, with Brian standing right in front of her and looking more irresistible than ever with Daisy curled up and purring contentedly in his arms. And yet she feels lonely.

"Are you okay? Margaret?"

Brian says her name softly just as the tea kettle begins to whistle. There is a confused and concerned expression on his face, and he wants so much to touch her, to reach out and feel the smooth skin of her cheek after being away from her all evening.

But Margaret quickly turns away and heads back to the kitchen.

He sets Daisy down on the patio table, quietly closing the French doors behind him, and makes his way towards the kitchen. He lingers in the doorway as the spicy scents of vanilla, nutmeg, and cardamom slowly fill the room, bringing a hint of a smile to his face; he had made rooibos chai tea for her after their Easter dinner, and it has been Margaret's after-dinner tea of choice ever since.

He walks over to where Margaret is standing, and he can see the uncertainty in her eyes when she silently hands him his tea.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asks softly.

She shakes her head, but the uncertainty continues to swirl in her eyes as she weighs her words. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just . . . a little hurt."

He sets the mug down on the counter and reaches for her hand. But she pulls away, unable to bear the proximity, and wraps her arms around herself.

"Listen, Brian," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. "My whole life is here in Arcadia, and there isn't anyone in my life who doesn't know about us. I know that your life is a lot bigger than mine and that there are a lot more people in it. I can understand that it isn't easy for you, having to explain to people that you're . . . seeing a Returned. I can understand if you're embarrassed about—"

He cuts her off with a kiss, and though it's not the first time that he's kissed her with passion, there is a sense of urgency and a relentlessness to the way his tongue barrels past her lips, seeking out hers. He pushes her up against the refrigerator and covers her body with his, keeping one hand firmly molded to her hip and sliding his other hand up her neck until his fingers lose themselves in her wavy, silken hair. Her hands roam all over his torso, her fingernails lightly digging into his chest as she grabs at the smooth silk of his necktie to pull him closer. When his fingers gently pull at her hair, she gasps hotly into his ear and tilts her head back. And it's all the invitation he needs. His lips latch onto the pulse point on her neck, and a deep tingling sensation begins in her toes, quickly spreading throughout her entire body as the gentle nipping of his teeth is followed by the soothing stroke of his tongue on her flushed skin, over and over and over again. She wants so much to give in to the intense pleasure she feels building inside her and to let Brian's hand continue its ascent from the curve of her hip up towards her breast.

But she can't.

Not until the question that has been troubling her all evening finally stops echoing in her ears. As much as she wants him, what she wants even more—what she needs—right now is an explanation.

She flattens her palms against his chest, gently pushing him away as she slips out of his arms. For the second time this evening, she's gripping the counter with all her might in an attempt to steady herself. She feels herself burning up with panic, her eyes welling with hot tears and a painful tightness gripping her chest as she tries to keep her insecurities from overtaking her. But the question continues to eat away at her, and she can't stop worrying that the reason Brian hasn't told the people in his life about her is because he's regretting his decision to move to Arcadia. _What if it's because he's disappointed with me?_ She had kept that thought at bay all evening, but she finally allows it to enter her mind now. And it utterly devastates her. She waits with bated breath, dreading the deafening silence that will settle in the apartment after Brian walks out the door.

But Brian doesn't leave.

He gently sweeps her hair to the side, nuzzling her neck as he wraps his arms around her tiny waist. He kisses her just behind her right ear, and for the next minute, he simply holds her, his lips never breaking contact with her skin as he breathes her in.

"I am not embarrassed about being with you. I'm absolutely crazy about you, Margaret. You know that," he whispers insistently.

She presses her lips together tightly, closing her eyes and shaking her head, as she slips out of his arms again.

"Then why?" she asks, finally looking at him, with tears in her eyes and in her voice. "Why does it feel like you don't want the people in your life to know about me? About us?"

She can hardly get the words out. A tear threatens to spill onto her cheek, and she quickly wipes it away as she walks past him. Even with her back to him, she can still feel his eyes watching her. She wants to be angry with him, but she's too angry with herself at the moment—angered and deeply saddened by her feelings of inadequacy, of simply not being enough. She covers her face with her hands, unable to contain the sob welling up inside her.

"I knew that your fascination would fade with time," she says, as she slowly sinks into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. "I just didn't think that it would fade away so soon." Her voice cracks under the weight of her heavy heart, and with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, she has never looked so small or so defeated.

He quietly walks over and kneels down beside her. He takes her hand in his, and she experiences a different kind of heartbreak when he holds her hand over his heart, allowing her to feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

"My feelings for you may have changed, but they have not faded. And I am not embarrassed about being with you. Damn it, Margaret! I want to shout it from the rooftops that we're together!"

He takes a calming breath, shaking his head.

"The reason I hadn't said anything to Julia is because, even though she was a big part of my life once, she's not a big part of my life anymore. It's not because I'm ashamed of us or because I have any regrets about being here in Arcadia with you, because nothing could be further from the truth. Every moment that I'm with you, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm meant to be," he tells her, his voice so open and honest. "Margaret, our relationship is the most important thing in the world to me. It's the thing I am proudest of, but that also makes our relationship the thing that I'm the most protective of. We've built something together that is really beautiful and special . . . and ours. And I couldn't let just anyone into it. But the people who mean the most to me, they all know. They know how incredibly happy I am and that you're a really big part of the reason why," he says with a sigh. "I'm crazy about you, Margaret. I don't know how else I can say it."

"When we met this afternoon, why didn't you kiss my cheek when you said hello? Why did that change?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She stares at the floor, mortified at having finally admitted out loud what had upset her so deeply this afternoon, and she wishes she hadn't said anything. "I'm sorry. This is all so new to me; I don't even know what I'm doing half the time! I know how ridiculous and selfish this must make me sound. It's just that Warren wasn't proud of me, of being with me. He hardly ever looked at me and when he did, it was always with such disdain. As if to remind me that I was nothing special. Nothing worth winning. Nothing worth having," she says, the tears rapidly welling in her eyes. "I know how unfair it is of me to compare you to him, because you're nothing like him, Brian. But you always say hello with a kiss, and when you didn't do that this afternoon, it really scared me . . . and it really hurt."

He watches as a single tear slowly rolls down her cheek, and he presses her hand a little more firmly against his heart.

"God! Margaret, I am so sorry!" he apologizes in a panic. "I just thought it would make you uncomfortable if I kissed you in front of a couple of strangers, and I didn't want for you to think that I was just doing it for show, like I was trying to show off in front of my ex-wife. I never meant to hurt you, sweetheart," he says, wiping away her tears and cupping her cheek so gently. "You're still the most extraordinary thing in my life. That title belongs to you. Only you. And there is nothing that could ever take it from you. It's been yours since the first time I touched you," he tells her, looking down at their hands, still interlocked on his chest, and he closes his eyes as he thinks back to the autumn morning when they'd first met and the breathless feeling that has persisted ever since he shook her hand. "Can you forgive me? Can you give me another chance?" he pleads, with an unmistakable desperation in his voice. "Please give me another chance."

"Do I really make you happy?" she asks timidly, her doe-like eyes a hypnotic mix of incredulity and hopefulness. _I ruin everything, Brian, and I don't want to ruin you_ , she had tearfully confessed to him by the lake last month. The idea that she could actually make Brian—perfect, whole, lovely Brian—happy goes against the worst thing she has always believed about herself.

He smiles at her with such tenderness, as if the answer to her question is completely obvious. And for him, it is.

"More than you can imagine. You will never fade for me," he promises, leaning his forehead against hers and closing the small space between them.

She reaches out to touch his cheek, and he leans into her touch, his lips seeking out the unbelievably soft skin inside her wrist.

"I've missed you, sweetheart," he whispers in a low voice. He kisses her thumb when she caresses his lips, and she can feel the depths of emotion in both his warm brown eyes and in his dulcet voice when he asks her, "You and me?"

Now it is Margaret's turn to smile as if the answer couldn't be more obvious. She hungrily captures his lips, sliding her hands into his hair and slipping her tongue into his mouth with a low moan. Brian's hands go to the back her knees, his fingertips teasing the smooth, heated skin there and coaxing her legs apart so that he can feel her thighs straddling his waist as he kneels between them. There is something almost brazen about the way Brian touches and kisses her, his hands and his lips instinctively knowing exactly where to go and what to do, as if he has explored every inch of her body before and has already memorized all the ways to thrill her, even before she has discovered them for herself. He touches and kisses her with the daring of a man who is confident in his abilities to please a woman, and it sends a throbbing shiver down her spine.

"You and me," she assures him breathlessly in between fevered kisses.

The question that has plagued her all evening is finally silenced; all she can hear now is the sound of Brian murmuring her name as he nibbles her earlobe. She keeps her cheek pressed against his, relishing the light scratch of the stubble on his cheek against her skin, as she whispers three little words into his ear: "Stay the night."

* * *

     He experiences her through his senses before he's fully conscious. It begins with the soothing scent of lavender in her hair slowly infusing his dreamless sleep before his sense of touch takes over—the steady rush of her warm breaths tickling his neck, the smooth satin of her chemise beneath his fingertips, the creamy skin of her thighs caressing his own.

He keeps his eyes closed as he kisses her forehead, filling his lungs with her and savoring the sensation of her body snugly nestled against him, her feather-light frame practically atop his as she continues to sleep—her head in the crook of his neck, her hand lightly resting on his chest, the sound of her deep, even breaths blending with the cheerful birdsong of the robins from the park.

Slowly, he opens his eyes to find the early morning sunlight trickling through the sheer curtains, bathing the walls of her bedroom in a soft glow and bringing forth a dazzling explosion of summer freckles on Margaret's back and shoulders. His hands move of their own accord, languidly wandering over her gorgeous body. While the fingertips of his right hand play connect the dots with the freckles on her upper arm, his mind begins to blissfully replay the intimacies he and Margaret had shared with each other in this bed last night.

\---

 _A little after midnight . . ._  
He strips down to his undershirt and boxer briefs in the powder room, and he smiles as he picks up the toothbrush, recalling the wonderful feeling of standing behind Margaret—his arms loosely wrapped around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder—in the cozy space of her bathroom. While he stood admiring their reflection in the mirror, smiling at what an attractive couple the two of them made, Margaret had grabbed a new toothbrush from the medicine cabinet, removed it from its packaging, and neatly applied the mint toothpaste for him. She had handed him the toothbrush with a smile, and he had thanked her with a quick peck on the lips. And somehow everything about those few minutes had felt simultaneously new and familiar, as if he and Margaret had always gone through this bedtime routine together.

He finishes brushing his teeth and makes his way towards Margaret's bedroom, pausing when he reaches the threshold. Leaning against the doorframe, he silently watches her as she sits at her vanity and brushes out her hair.

She rises from her seat, and he's just about to ask her which side of the bed he should take. But his words catch in his throat when Margaret—standing with her back to him and unaware of his presence—unties her robe and slips it off her shoulders. The momentary displacement of her long hair affords him the briefest, yet highly satisfying view of the flawless skin of her toned back beneath the crisscrossing straps of her chemise, which hugs the ravishing contours of her body like a dream, and every molecule in his body ignites with desire.

He lives an entire lifetime in the space of just a handful of seconds, completely losing himself in the most vivid fantasy he's ever had about the two of them.

He can picture himself sitting on the edge of the queen size bed, can almost feel the smooth satin of her navy blue chemise against his fingertips as he imagines how he would place his hands low on her waist and gently pull her towards him; how his thumbs would trace the jut of her hip bones as she stands between his legs; how her hands would slide along his shoulders and into his hair as his own hands ascend along the outline of her supple body; how his fingers would slip under the impossibly thin straps of her chemise to slip them off her shoulders; how the satin would glide off her skin in the most mesmerizing fashion until it softly pools around her ankles on the bedroom floor. He feels himself twitch at the thought of how her standing naked before him would grant his lips and his tongue unhindered access to her breasts, and he wants nothing more than to take one of those perfect breasts into his mouth as his hands travel southwards—over the curve of her perfect ass and down the backs of her perfect thighs—to flip her onto her back and lay her down on the bed in one fluid movement, shower every last inch of her body with hundreds of scorching, open-mouthed kisses, and locked in her passionate embrace, he would make slow, sweet love to her until she softly cries out in pleasure and he completely empties himself deep inside her.

She can feel every inch of her skin tingling from the penetrating heat of his intense gaze. At the sound of his breath rushing from his lungs, she nervously turns around to face him. Her blue eyes are looking directly into his eyes, and it only causes his arousal to intensify. Suddenly, the fantasy he had been indulging begins to feel more and more like a glimpse into the not too distant future.

"Warren was a goddamn fool," he says in a thick voice. "How could anyone not want you?"

She blinks her eyes in dismay before she slowly sits down on the edge of the bed and stares down at her hands, clasping them together tightly in her lap in order to keep herself from fidgeting.

He crosses the threshold and enters her bedroom. Quietly, he sits down beside her. "Did I say something wrong?" he asks gently.

She could laugh at his question; whatever faults Brian may have, saying the wrong thing is not one of them. "No, you didn't say anything wrong," she answers, and she can hear her voice shaking. "I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea. I do want you to stay the night, but I'm . . . I'm not ready yet, Brian."

He doesn't look displeased with her for saying that, but that only seems to add to her guilt and to the feeling that she owes him an explanation. "I might never be ready," she says apologetically, the burning panic rising in her throat making it difficult for her to catch her breath. "I know it doesn't mean anything, but I wish I was. I do want for it to happen. With you."

"How could that not mean anything?" he asks her, tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling so sweetly, so full of affection. He looks at her like she's just delivered the best possible news.

"It was never good with Warren," she admits, embarrassed. "And I'm worried that . . . what if the reason it was never any good was because of me? Because of the way I look? Because I'm just not any good?"

Though she never sought his affections, Warren's resounding lack of attraction to her, which he never made any attempt to disguise, had still stung, and it was thrown into sharp relief by his steadfast refusal to ever look at her during sex. It was the same every time, always occurring in complete darkness with Warren never saying a word to her at any point and leaving the room immediately after the deed was done, as if there was something so degrading and shameful about having sex with her. Lying there afterwards—painfully sore, cold with loneliness, and blinking back her tears—always filled her with such shame, making her feel like she was Warren's cheap whore, a possession to be used and discarded at whim, rather than his lawfully wedded wife. The damaging effects his indifference had on her self-esteem were irreparable, and as the years passed, she would come to the painful realization that she and Warren did have one thing in common after all: neither one of them could bear the sight of her.

Timidly, she raises her eyes to meet Brian's. She loves the way that he is looking at her now, loves it so much that it makes her heart ache. He looks at her like he's mesmerized by her, and she never wants to lose that.

No one had ever looked at her that way. Warren certainly hadn't. In nearly three decades as man and wife, he had never even seen her naked, had never shown any interest in ever seeing her naked. She knows the same cannot be said about Brian, and that only frightens her more. If they do finally become physically intimate, would he look at her body and find fault with everything about it? Would he look at her and feel the same revulsion that she feels every time she looks at herself in the mirror? It would simply destroy her to look into Brian's warm brown eyes and see the chill of disenchantment in them.

"I don't want to disappoint you, Brian," she whispers, her voice sounding so fragile. She looks back down at her hands, and she feels like she's fading away. She doesn't realize how hard she's shaking until Brian places a warm hand on her shoulder.

"You're shivering," he says with concern.

He gathers her slender frame into his arms, and her head fits so perfectly in the crook of his neck. Breathing in the splash of cologne on his warm skin, the storms inside her begin to calm. She places a hand on his chest, and she exhales slowly and deeply, as she feels his strong, steady heartbeat beneath the soft cotton of his shirt and his kisses in her hair.

"Do you remember what I told you before our first kiss? I swear that it's still true," he says, as he kneels down on the floor and reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ears. "You're beautiful, and I'm dazzled by you, Margaret. There isn't a single detail about you that doesn't completely take my breath away."

He tells her that she's beautiful all the time, and it never fails to flatter her. She knows that he doesn't lie to her, that he believes the truth in those words even if she could never bring herself to do the same.

Her voice catches in her throat, and her words die on the air. But Brian can hear her anyway: _I'm scared_.

She looks down at his handsome face with the same fearfulness in her eyes that he had seen in them when they stood across from each other on the dock that first time. "What if I can't do it, Brian? What if I can never give you more than this?" she asks, motioning to the space between them. "Would this be enough for you?" _Would I be enough for you? Could I ever be enough for you?_

She supposes a lesser man would respond with a lie in this moment, but Brian keeps his promise to her and answers her honestly, even though his words may fail to bring her the comfort she seeks and which he so desperately wishes he could provide her.

"Sex isn't the most important thing in a relationship, sweetheart. But it is important. I can't just make myself stop wanting you. Because I do want you. Desperately," he confesses. "But I don't want you to ever feel like you have to do anything that you're not comfortable with, and especially not for my sake. I know that give and take is part of any meaningful relationship and that sometimes we do things for the people we care about, even if it goes against what we want for ourselves. But not at the cost of your feelings. I couldn't enjoy it if I knew you weren't enjoying it too," he says, taking her hands in his. "I want it to happen for us, and I want it to be the most incredible experience for you every single time."

He kisses her hands, and there's an impish twinkle in his warm brown eyes. "You know, I've often found that it's the greatest things in life that require the most work in order to be great. The sex might not be great right away, but that's okay. This is one of those situations where I really don't mind that practice makes perfect."

She laughs despite herself, the sparkle returning to her eyes and brightening the space around her.

"You could never disappoint me, and I will always be dazzled by you," he promises, pressing a warm kiss to her blushing cheek. "Don't worry so much about pleasing me. Because I'm happy and completely head over heels for you. And I just know that it'll be okay—more than okay—when it happens. Every time."

She's about to ask him how he can be so sure, but he answers her question even before she asks it by putting a finger to her lips and whispering, "Because it'll be with you."

It feels as if her heart is slowly breaking, but in a way that isn't painful. Rather, it is as if her heart has swelled beyond its capacity and is being created anew. The relief crashes into her like a tidal wave, and in its wake there is newfound calmness and courage within her.

"Fred asked me something earlier this evening that really upset me—not just the question itself, but how lost it made me feel. I didn't have an answer for him when he asked me what I would do if Warren returns."

A terrible, twisting sense of dread settles in the pit of his stomach, and he feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. He knows that Margaret never loved Warren. But he also knows that she doesn't love him either, and there's no guarantee that she ever will. She may no longer wear her wedding ring and Henry may have thrown her out of the house, but if Warren Langston does return, the ungrateful bastard would have one very important claim on Margaret that Brian does not: she is still Margaret Langston. His heart is hammering painfully against his ribs, but he tries his best to keep his voice and his smile as relaxed as possible.

"It's okay. I understand. It's a complicated situation," he says, loosening his hold on her hands.

"It's not, actually," she asserts, reaching out to lift his chin so that they're looking into each other's eyes again. "I know that I don't ever want to see Warren again and that I would never go back to him. I don't feel lost anymore . . . because I'm with you." She kisses him squarely on the mouth, pressing her lips firmly against his for the longest time before she pulls his top lip between hers. "I want to be with you, Brian. More than anything."

There is both relief and joy in his exhale when he presses his forehead to hers. "Lucky me," he whispers.

She looks into his eyes as she traces her index finger along the v-neck of his shirt and down the center of his chest. She pulls at his shirt, and he kisses her slowly and deeply as he climbs into her bed, with one hand on her waist and the other pillowing her head as he lays her down gently. She turns onto her side, and he wraps the crisp Egyptian cotton percale sheet around them as he lies down behind her, his hand resting in the curve of her waist as their bodies slowly tuck into each other's in a perfect fit. He nuzzles her lavender-scented hair until his lips find the nape of her neck, and she smiles dreamily as Brian's kisses make their way across her upper back, turning her head to capture his lips when they reach her shoulder.

"Sweet dreams, sweetheart," he whispers, and with his cheek pressed against her shoulder blade and his legs entwined with hers, he listens to her calm, steady breaths until his eyelids grow heavy with sleep.

\---

 _A little after sunrise . . ._  
He feels her stir beside him, and a deep warmth begins in his chest, spreading throughout his entire body, as he watches her slowly blink the sleep out of her eyes and look up at him, smiling serenely.

"Good morning, beautiful," he whispers to her, moving in for a kiss, but she flattens her palm against his chest.

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet," she says, self-consciously turning her face away.

But Brian simply chuckles. "Neither have I," he whispers into her ear, the heat of his breath and the blatant flirtation in his voice sending a thrill through her.

She looks up at him, and she sees that there is no deterring him in his pursuit of her lips. There is something effortless and electrifying about waking up to each other on a Saturday morning, and her smile lets him know that she is ready to share this newest intimacy with him. His hands are in her hair as he kisses her, the touch of his lips warm and gentle. He leaves the decision up to her whether to pull away or to deepen the kiss, and at the feathery touch of her tongue against his, his last sense is finally and thoroughly satisfied by the taste of her morning kiss.

He freshens up in the powder room and puts on his suit trousers and his blue dress shirt, leaving it untucked and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He buttons his shirt as he walks through the living room towards the kitchen, where the open window lets in the smell of springtime flowers covered in the morning dew and the soft melodies of Alex's guitar from the balcony above. Standing in the doorway, he smiles as he falls in love with the sight before him: Margaret standing barefoot in a short-sleeve silk blouse and slim fit cropped pants, her hair loose and flowing, with Daisy weaving between her ankles as she pours freshly ground coffee into the French press.

At the sound of Brian's contented sigh, Margaret turns her head, looking at him over her shoulder and greeting him with a smile.

"Would you mind helping me with this?" she asks demurely, sweeping her long hair to the side and revealing the keyhole closure of her silk blouse.

He's instantly drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and he can't resist kissing the back of her neck as he takes his time with fastening her blouse, nor can he deny the satisfaction that accompanies the feel of her body shivering beneath the brush of his lips.

Giving her a playful smile, he walks over to the kitchen table, leaning back against it as he watches her pour the boiling water into the French press and rotate the dial on the egg timer to the four-minute mark. She raises herself onto her tiptoes to grab two coffee mugs from the cabinet, and as she makes her way towards him, his heart is suddenly racing at a speed that rivals the ticking of the timer.

Ever since that lovely March evening when they had their first dinner together at his house, he has had this question in the back of his mind. He hears the timer ticking the seconds away, and he knows he only has a short window in which to summon all his courage and to finally ask her his question. She sets the mugs down on the table, and he reaches for her hands.

"There's something I've been wanting to ask you," he says, "and you don't have to answer right away. It's just something I hope you'll consider."

"Okay," she answers, looking up at him with a mix of apprehension and curiosity in her eyes and her voice.

He stands up straight, holding her hands in his and running his thumbs across her knuckles as he tries to work out what he wants to say to her.

"Move in with me," he says breathlessly. He looks into her blue eyes—wide with surprise, but also filled with a vulnerability and a hopefulness that mirrors his own—and he takes a deep breath. "I loved falling asleep with you last night and waking up to you this morning. And I want to experience that every day. I want to come home to you, Margaret," he whispers, holding her hands a little tighter. "I can understand if this is all moving too fast, and I can understand if you're not ready to take such a big step. I want you to know that it's okay if your answer's no. I know that I'm asking for a lot. But just promise me that you'll think about it?"

She nods, clearly overwhelmed. "I'll think about it," she tells him, reaching up to tenderly caress his cheek.

He exhales slowly, and they stand together in a tension-filled silence until the timer goes off. He watches her retreating form, and he slowly goes back to leaning against the kitchen table. His hands grip the edge of the table, and he tries not to feel too discouraged, though his heart continues to pound away at a grueling pace.

She walks back to the table, standing so close to him as she prepares their coffees, and her fingers lightly brush against his when she hands him his mug. He takes a sip of his coffee, and he wonders what she's thinking as he watches her do the same. Setting her coffee down, she gently touches his forearm as she comes to stand in front of him. She gracefully sweeps her hair behind her ear, and he sets his coffee mug down on the table next to hers when she places her hands on his chest.

At the sound of her voice softly saying his name, he looks up at her and his eyes focus their gaze on her lovely mouth, watching for that split second just before she gives him her most dazzling smile. And his heart skips a beat, because he has his answer. Because he knows what that smile means.

"Really?" he asks, breathless with joy.

Her eyes are sparkling, her face aglow with the most open and enchanting expression. And she says yes.

He wraps his arms around her, lifting her well off the ground, and the sound of their shared laughter is the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. It feels like time is standing still and the two of them are melting into each other as they share a slow, leisurely kiss on a sun-drenched Saturday morning.

"Good morning, beautiful," he whispers with a sigh, the lovely fragrance of her perfume enveloping him like a warm quilt and the sweetness of her kiss still fresh on his lips, as he runs his fingers through her hair.

She is bursting with what she can only describe as happiness, because she realizes that Brian's choosing to be with her was not a one-time decision, but rather an ongoing one. On Easter, she had said yes to him and felt the first sparks of something she thought she had lost forever suddenly burst back to life. It was the bravest thing she had ever done—choosing him, trusting him with her secrets, her fears, her heart—and Brian had given her something to hold onto, something she had never found with anyone else: a sense of certainty in the here and now.

"Good morning, handsome," she replies with a radiant smile. Holding his beaming face in her hands, with her sylphlike fingers lightly massaging his ears, she pulls him closer for one more kiss.

\---

Later that Saturday, they exchange smiles as Margaret uses her key to unlock the front door for the first time, and though he doesn't carry her bridal-style over the threshold, though he's extremely tempted by the idea of doing so, he catches Margaret by surprise when he slips his arm around her waist and lifts her a few inches off the ground as they walk through the doorway together. She's blushing beautifully as she gives him a playful slap on the arm, and he bends down to steal a quick kiss as he kicks the door closed behind them and takes her hand in his.

She smiles shyly as she places the overnight bag she had packed after lunch down in the foyer beside the coat rack. They walk hand in hand through the house, and Margaret makes lemonade in the kitchen while Brian takes the supplies they had bought at the hardware store that morning out to the backyard. They spend the afternoon planting a small herb garden together and they finish off the lemonade as they sit on the patio deck, with Margaret resting her head on Brian's shoulder as they watch the sky turn red-orange at sunset.

He holds her hand as they walk down the hallway that leads to the bedroom. He places his hand on the small of her back as he guides her inside the master suite for the first time, and he smiles as he stands in the doorway, simply watching Margaret as she explores the wood-burning fireplace and the large walk-in closet. Joining her on the king size bed, he takes her hand in his as they both slowly lie back on the bed together.

"If there's anything you'd like to change about the room, anything at all, just say the word and I'll make it happen," he says, propping his head up on his elbow and kissing her hand softly.

She gives him a smile, and her eyes land on something just behind his right shoulder. He follows the path of her eyes, and he smiles as he grabs the silver picture frame from his nightstand and hands it to her.

"Where did you get this?" she asks, her eyes sparkling with delighted curiosity as she tenderly touches her fingers to the glass.

"From Robin," he says, sweeping her hair back so that he can kiss her shoulder. "Turns out your friend is quite the talented photographer."

It is a black-and-white photograph of her and Brian, taken just after Easter—hands entwined and looking completely lost in each other as they shared their first dance. She turns her head to look at him, and he can see by the glowing expression on her face that she loves this photograph as much as he does.

When she reaches across him to place the picture frame back on the nightstand, his hands languidly slide down to her waist. She looks down at him, and her eyes linger on his lips for several seconds before she and Brian come together like two magnets. He pulls her on top of him, and as they kiss each other passionately, she is warmed by the knowledge that there has always been a place for her here and by the thought of how that photograph of the two of them is what Brian had chosen for his nightstand—the last thing he sees before he drifts off to sleep each night and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes each morning. When they pull apart, they're both slightly flushed and out of breath.

"I wouldn't change anything about our bedroom," she whispers in his ear, her fingertips caressing the flushed skin of his neck just below his Adam's apple, and his pulse races wildly at the sound of her voice saying the words "our bedroom".

"Well, Mrs. Langston," he says with a slightly mischievous grin, "now that you're in it, I wouldn't change a thing about our bedroom either." He reaches up to comb his fingers through her beautiful hair and looking into her eyes, he whispers, "Stay the night."

She takes a quick shower, instantly falling in love with every detail of the spa-like master bathroom—the gentle massage of the rainfall shower head, the luxurious feel of the plush cotton bath sheets, the sight of her toothbrush in its glass beside Brian's at the double sink vanity. She sits on the edge of the soaking tub and combs her hair before changing into her short-sleeve pajamas. When she softly knocks on the open door of his study to let him know that the bathroom's free, Brian looks up from his laptop with a smile at the sight of her standing in the doorway in her light blue pajamas, without any makeup on and with her damp hair cascading over her shoulders.

She's draining the penne pasta at the sink when he walks into the kitchen after his shower. Softly, he kisses the side of her neck as he wraps his arms around her tiny waist, and she sighs contentedly as she leans back against the solid wall of his chest and reaches up to curl her fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. The combed broadcloth of her pajamas feels silky smooth against his fingertips, and he can only wonder how it's possible that, even though she had used his shampoo and his shower gel, she can still smell so feminine and more irresistible than ever.

\---

After a lazy Sunday together, he wakes up feeling completely refreshed and to the smell of Margaret cooking breakfast for them. He walks into the kitchen, and he feels like he's floating on air when Margaret's eyes take in his appearance and she smiles in approval. He has to go into the St. Louis office for his Monday morning partners' meeting, and he looks picture-perfect in his dark suit. She straightens his tie for him, and he kisses her good morning as she hands him his plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

After breakfast, she makes him a coffee for the road, and he thanks her with a quick kiss when she hands him his travel mug. They walk from the kitchen to the garage, and he takes the cover off the Corvette Stingray—an impulse buy from a few years ago, when a particularly successful year for his company had meant a particularly generous Christmas bonus. He's only driven the Corvette a few times since he'd moved to Arcadia, usually only when he has to make an appearance at the corporate office. And though he always feels a little embarrassed by all the attention that such a gorgeous car inevitably attracts, he certainly hadn't minded the way Margaret had looked at him the first time he had pulled up to the coffee shop in the Corvette and stepped out of the car, dressed to the nines. Nor had he minded the attention when he'd arrived at the baseball field in this car a few weeks ago, and Jacob had run up and begged him to take him for a ride in the Corvette one day.

As he holds Margaret's hand on the drive into town that morning, he smiles at the thought of summer being just around the corner and how much he's looking forward to the idea of putting the top down and taking long drives with Margaret in this car, with the summer sunshine on her shoulders and her hair blowing in the wind.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek, when he drops her off at the library.

At lunchtime, she goes to the post office to fill out a change of address form and then to Maggie's clinic for her monthly doctor's appointment.

Though her granddaughter isn't her primary doctor, for both ethical and personal reasons, and still doesn't call her "Grandma", Maggie always takes the time each month to come into the exam room and see her for a few minutes. She's slightly embarrassed about discussing the topic with her granddaughter, but Maggie is sympathetic when Margaret expresses her concerns about becoming intimate with Brian.

"It's nothing to feel embarrassed about. Many women experience discomfort during sex, especially after menopause. Fortunately, there are over-the-counter and prescription options that can help," Maggie tells her. "You won't know for sure until you actually try, Margaret. Just keep the communication open between you two. And remember," Maggie says, placing a reassuring hand on Margaret's shoulder, "just because it wasn't enjoyable in the past, that doesn't necessarily mean that it never will be."

She's touched by her granddaughter's unfailing kindness, and just as she always does, she tells Maggie, "I am so proud of you, my dear."

Maggie hugs her warmly, and it fills Margaret with a renewed sense of optimism as she leaves the clinic and returns to finish her shift at the library.

Fred calls her as she's leaving work that evening, and she accepts his invitation to join him for dinner at Twain's. He's already waiting for her with a large pitcher of iced tea when she walks into the restaurant.

"So, when's the housewarming party?" Fred asks her, as she's grabbing several of the flimsy napkins from the dispenser to wipe down her seat.

"Dear God! Is there no privacy in this town?" she asks, slightly irritated, as she slides into the booth.

"With your son as the sheriff? I would think not. Plus, I ran into Gordon from the hardware store at lunchtime today, and he told me that you and Brian came in on Saturday morning. According to him, you two looked rather lovey-dovey as you watched him cut a new house key for the two of you. He said it made him feel more like a jeweler setting a diamond than a hardware man," he tells her, smiling in amusement at the sight of his mother blushing red. "And, of course, it doesn't hurt that Sherry at the post office is a bit of a gossip—"

"And still has a high school crush on you," she quips.

"—and told me you came in earlier today to change your mailing address to match that of one Mr. Brian Addison," Fred says, sipping his iced tea. "You're sure about this?"

"I am," she replies confidently. She smiles shyly as she looks out the window and remembers what Brian had told her when he asked her to move in with him: _I want to come home to you, Margaret_. Folding her arms on the table and leaning forward on her elbows, she asks Fred, "Are you okay with this?"

"If I say no, would it change your mind?" he teases.

"Nope," she answers in the same playful tone Jacob always uses, unable to hide her grin as she pretends to have more interest in the menu than in their conversation.

He chuckles at that. "Well then, I guess it's a good thing that I'm happy for you," he says, with a grin of his own as he pours her a glass of iced tea.

\---

That night, she falls asleep on the living room sofa and she startles awake, panicked that she had overslept and is running late for work, when she feels Brian's warm kiss upon her cheek. "It's okay, it's only me," he says, stroking her hair. "I just couldn't wait until tomorrow to see you, so I drove back as soon as I could."

When he had called her just before lunchtime, he had ended the call by telling her, "I miss you." And when she'd told him that she missed him too, those words had sent him straight over to his secretary's desk. The company always reserves a room for him at the Four Seasons Hotel every Monday, and he tells Erica to permanently cancel the reservation. After all, Arcadia is less than two hours away and he knows where he would rather fall asleep tonight.

Pulling the Corvette into the driveway that night, his heart had leapt into his throat when he saw the soft glow of the living room lamps in the windows, letting him know that Margaret was at the house. He'd quietly walked inside and smiled at the sight of Margaret dressed in her pajamas and lying fast asleep on the leather sofa. He'd gently lifted her arm to remove the library book from her chest before he removed her reading glasses. After placing her book and her glasses on the coffee table, he'd knelt down beside her and kissed her cheek.

"I'm glad you're here," she murmurs sleepily.

"Me too. I like being here," he says softly.

His lips and his tongue court hers as his hands slip underneath her, and she's light as a feather in his arms. She curls into his chest, and he carries her to their bedroom and lays her down gently on their bed. When he climbs into bed that night, wrapping his body around Margaret's and breathing her deep into his lungs, he knows that he would do anything to end up back here with her every night.

* * *

     She officially moves in with Brian over the Memorial Day weekend. She waves goodbye to Robin at the end of her shift that Friday, and instead of driving her over to Brian's, Alex hands Margaret the keys to the Cadillac.

"Take the car. It's yours any time you need it," Alex tells her. With her usual impish grin, she adds, "Besides, this car looks even better with you driving it."

It is a cloudless spring day as she drives the Cadillac through town, eagerly looking forward to meeting Brian for lunch back at the house and having the long weekend all to themselves. It feels like an eternity between now and Tuesday morning.

When she walks through the front door, the thick scent of gardenias wafts in through the open French doors just off the kitchen and it perfumes the entire house. And Margaret instinctively knows what she will find when she walks through the kitchen and leans against the doorframe of the patio doors.

And sure enough, she finds Brian outside, standing barefoot in a seemingly endless sea of green grass, with the bright rays of the afternoon sun dancing in his hair. She looks at Brian—this lovely man who might never know how he had been the one to save her from letting go and who continues to save her every day—and suddenly, the image she has carried in her heart and has clung to since she was eleven years old has miraculously been brought to life. And she now knows what it was she had been seeking all along, and what she has found at long last: a feeling of certainty in an uncertain and ever-changing world. _The idea of home_.

She slips off her shoes and walks to the edge of the patio deck, and at the sound of her approaching footfalls, Brian turns around and greets her with a huge smile on his handsome face.

"You know, I think every man in Arcadia is going to be green with envy when he finds out that I'm living with not one, but two beautiful, blue-eyed ladies," he says cheerfully, and she smiles when she sees Daisy curled up in his arms. "I went by your apartment earlier today, and I thought maybe this little one would like to come live with us."

She smiles as she gently strokes the kitten's head before placing her hands on Brian's shoulders. "I think that's a wonderful idea. Aren't you just the most thoughtful boyfriend?" she says, the two of them grinning about how they've started referring to each other, somewhat jokingly, by such adolescent terms ever since she told him about her conversation with Jacob. He sets Daisy down and he holds Margaret's hand as he guides her down the steps and onto the lawn.

"There were a couple other reasons why I went by your apartment this morning. Alex sold me the vanity set that was in your bedroom for a very generous price. I've already moved it into our bedroom for you. And there was something else I really wanted to get for you. For us," he says, covering her eyes as he guides her over to the large magnolia tree. "I've been agonizing over which fire pit to get for the backyard for months now. But last night, I suddenly realized that there was only one that would ever do," he tells her as he softly kisses her neck and removes his hands.

When she opens her eyes, she sees the fire pit and the loveseat from the apartment building's courtyard before her. She's completely overwhelmed and smiling through her joyous tears when she realizes that Brian has recreated the scene of their first kiss here in their backyard, right down to the star-shaped lights hanging from the magnolia tree.

Brian grabs a small bouquet of wildflowers from the loveseat, handing them to her with an incandescent smile. "Welcome home, sweetheart," he says, and those may be the most beautiful three words he's ever said to her.

She's in his arms like a shot—her arms around his shoulders, her slightly trembling fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. She feels his kiss on her temple, and it's as if she's both floating on air and melting into Brian. Her lips seek out his, and she kisses him until they're both breathless. Closing her eyes, she basks in the feeling of Brian nuzzling her neck and breathing her in. And that moment, so ripe with possibility, is the first time she finally uses the term of endearment she had selected for him when she had said yes to him—and to them—as the light of the rising sun found them on that Easter morning. Tracing the shell of his ear with her index finger, she whispers, "Thank you so much, darling."

\---

He is constantly discovering new things to love about this gorgeous girlfriend of his. At the end of their first week living together, he and Margaret are having a late lunch at the kitchen island when the doorbell rings, and he can't keep himself from laughing as he watches Margaret excitedly sign for the large package that has just been delivered.

"Looks like someone's discovered the joy of online shopping. Should I be reconsidering my decision to add you as an authorized user on my credit cards?" he teases as he walks over to her, his curiosity getting the better of him.

She shoots him a look of mock annoyance before raising herself onto her tiptoes and kissing his cheek. "It's for you, darling. I hope you like it. Consider it my belated housewarming present to you. Or an early birthday present," she says. He tilts his head sideways, wondering how she knows that his birthday's coming up, and his surprised smile makes him look adorably boyish. "Jacob told me it's your birthday on Sunday. Go on, open it."

He grabs a pair of scissors from the study, and his face breaks into a huge smile when he cuts through the packing tape and sees what Margaret has bought him. "You're the best!" he tells her, his kisses on her cheek happening in such rapid succession that she's laughing from how much it tickles as she playfully pushes him away.

He hangs the new hammock between the two perfectly spaced oak trees in the far corner of the backyard and when he turns around and sees Margaret, with the orange glow of the sunset kissing her bare shoulders as she walks barefoot through the thick green grass towards him, he feels like the Macy's 4th of July Fireworks Spectacular is exploding in his chest. She hands him a glass of lemonade, and he thanks her by wrapping his arm around her waist, lifting her off the ground, and kissing her as he spins her around.

That evening, Margaret is reading on the living room sofa after dinner when Brian comes to join her. He touches the soft skin of her left ankle and she begins to swing her legs off the sofa to make room for him, but he holds onto her ankles as he slides into his seat and places her feet in his lap. Her pulse quickens at the intimacy of the moment and also from the surprise of how natural it all feels. That night, as she reads _Poems_ by Anne Michaels and he lightly massages her feet in his lap, the small freckle on the arch of her left foot instantly becomes his favorite new discovery—the latest addition to that ever-growing list of details about her that take his breath away.

\---

When they're lying in the hammock and watching the stars come out the next night, Margaret presses her ear to Brian's heart and, with the lightest pressure of her fingertips, she explores the geography of his chest through his threadbare Stanford T-shirt.

"What's going on in that beautiful mind?" he asks, singing the words in his best John Legend imitation, when he both hears and feels her sigh against his chest.

"I was just thinking about something you told me when we first met," she answers, looking up at him. "About how you'd spent some time in Arcadia when you were younger."

"Yeah," he says, playing with her hair, "my family and my Uncle Charlie's family would come here whenever we kids had a break from school, usually during the summers. My brothers and I would go fishing down by the river with our cousins, and we all loved going to the ice cream parlor here in town. The last time I visited would have been when I was about twenty-two or so—the summer of '79, just after I graduated from college."

She smiles wistfully, thinking about how she would have turned fifty-two that summer and about how soon after she had fallen ill. "So, it's possible that we met all those years ago. Back when we were both alive."

He kisses her forehead and holds her a little tighter. "You're still alive, sweetheart. We both are," he reminds her. "I suppose it's possible that we ran into each other at some point before last fall. But I doubt it."

She folds her hands on his chest and rests her chin atop them. "What makes you so sure?" she asks, looking at him with a small frown.

He smiles as he traces the outline of her incredible cheekbones. "Because I would have remembered you," he says, matter-of-factly.

"It was a long time ago, Brian—"

He presses a finger to her lips with a soft chuckle. "I'm paying you a compliment, Mrs. Langston. I remember what it felt like to see your picture for the first time last fall. My God, how you took my breath away! If I had been lucky enough to see you, no matter how briefly or how many years ago, I would have remembered you. You're so beautiful, Margaret, and there's simply no forgetting this unforgettable face," he says, kissing the tip of her nose.

He surprises her with his words, and she, in turn, surprises him by sliding her body up along his, their lips reuniting again and again.

\---

When she wakes on the last Sunday in May, the sunlight streaming in through the blinds of the bedroom windows bathes Brian's handsome face in a heavenly glow, and as she watches him sleeping, the sense of certainty that had taken root eight weeks ago grows even stronger. It is the last day of what has been one whirlwind of a month, and she knows that she and Brian will share yet one more milestone with each other before month's end. Her long eyelashes flutter against his as she gives him a good morning kiss, and she smiles when he murmurs, "Good morning, beautiful" against her lips.

Wandering through the farmers' market that sunny morning, Margaret finds her gaze constantly drifting back to Brian, and every time his warm brown eyes and his smiles find her through the crowd, her sense of certainty grows a little stronger, until it guides her forward and towards their bedroom when they return to the house that afternoon.

Standing in the kitchen, she watches the muscles in his arms as he puts the groceries away, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and takes a long sip. Feeling herself drawn to him on a chemical level, she's unable to take her eyes off his mouth as she drags her index finger along the cool, granite countertop, up Brian's arm and shoulder, and down the center of his chest. She keeps her eyes fixed on his when she pulls at his shirt, and he swallows thickly before following her lead.

"Are you nervous?" he asks, his mouth so close to hers that she can taste his breath on her lips.

Her heart is pounding frantically when she looks up at him, her blue eyes brimming with vulnerability, but also dark with wanting.

"Yes . . . and no," she answers breathlessly, sliding her hands up his neck to bring their lips together in a passionate kiss.

Somehow, through a dizzying rush of frenzied kisses and roaming hands, they manage to make it down the hallway and into the bedroom, and when they reach the bed, she shyly turns around and undoes the small hook at the top of her dress.

"Allow me," he says softly, covering her hands with his own. She hesitates for a second before she lowers her hands to her sides, letting Brian slowly unzip her dress. He runs his index finger up the length of her spine before his hands slip underneath the fabric to guide her dress off her shoulders and down over the curves of her hips.

She can feel his breath on the back of her neck as her own breath catches in her throat. Looking down, she suddenly drowns in her deep-seated insecurities about all the things that are wrong with her body: her skin is too freckled, her breasts are too small, the pale pink scar on her abdomen from the cancer surgery is still too noticeable to her eyes. She's sick with panic and shudders when Brian gently places his palms on her shoulder blades. But Brian doesn't pull away from her, and when he gently kisses her where her neck meets her shoulder, the butterflies in her stomach simply vanish.

"It's okay, sweetheart. We don't have to do this right now if—"

"I want to," she tells him, looking over her shoulder and directly into his eyes.

And when she doesn't waver, he nods. Keeping his eyes on hers the entire time, he grabs the collar of his T-shirt with one hand, pulling it off in one quick movement before stripping off his jeans and boxers in one go. Her eyes rake over his naked body, and she can feel her desire surging through her with ever-increasing intensity when her eyes land upon the dusting of dark hair on his flat abdomen and follow its trail to points lower.

Standing with her back to him, she slips off her bra and slides her panties down her legs. When she turns around, she exhales slowly as she timidly lets her hands fall away from her breasts, fighting off the nervous twitch in her hands to cover herself up again. He still hasn't said anything, and she closes her eyes in shame as she tries to swallow the painful lump in her throat.

But when Brian gently lifts her chin and she opens her eyes to meet his, he is looking at her like he's witnessing something miraculous. And when he reaches behind her to remove the clip from her hair, she can hear his breath literally being taken away as her hair tumbles down onto her shoulders, and he whispers, "Wow."

She steps into his embrace and tentatively explores the toned muscles of his chest with her hands before her lips follow suit, and a shiver runs down her spine when he pulls her body flush against his. Her hands slide into his hair to pull his mouth down to hers as his hands slither down the backs of her thighs, and when he lifts her into his arms, the pleasurable feeling of her legs wrapped tightly around his waist and of her firm breasts pressed against his chest causes him to groan into her neck. Sliding one hand up her back to pillow her head, he lays her down gently on the bed. 

The small glimpses of the smooth skin of her décolletage have been driving him crazy for weeks now, and when he finally languidly drags his tongue through the valley between her breasts, all the way up her long neck, and into her mouth, his patience is rewarded by the satisfying sounds of Margaret's sharp gasps and the feel of her fingers spearing into his hair as she guides his fiery kisses back down to her breasts. His hands firmly grasp her slender hips as his kisses descend back down her neck and along her collarbones, and she can feel him smiling when he kisses the inner curve of her breast, humming contentedly—low, rich notes like those produced by a cello and which send vibrations through every inch of her. He teases her by circling her breasts with hot kisses and pulling away just as his lips approach her nipples, until he has her writhing underneath him and gasping his name. With the wickedest gleam in his eyes, he slips his hands under her and slowly slides them upwards, causing her back to arch and sending her breast into his eagerly awaiting mouth, his tongue finally lapping at its sensitive center, and her eyes snap open when his fingers dip between her thighs, stroking her slowly. 

He presses his forehead to hers, his warm breaths mixing with hers, and her shock gives way to something else when she realizes that Brian is doing something for her that Warren had never bothered with. His words echo in her ears: _I couldn't enjoy it if I knew you weren't enjoying it too_ and _I want it to be the most incredible experience for you every single time_. And Brian's eyes, already so dark with desire, darken even further when he feels just how ready she is.

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking at her with such tenderness.

She reaches up to caress his cheek and slowly sweeps her thumb across his parted lips. And she says yes.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, his eyes locked on hers as he gently slips himself inside her. "Margaret, you're perfect," he tells her, pushing himself in the rest of the way. 

They make love slowly that afternoon, with Brian using the changing pressures of her fingertips on his shoulder blades as his guide as he takes his time exploring her. When she throws her head back in pleasure, the contrast of her dark hair fanned out on the white pillowcase is absolutely breathtaking, and it also exposes a small freckle on her jawline—one that he's never seen before and which beckons his lips to it. There is something incredibly intimate about watching someone as they experience something for the first time, and that afternoon, time seems to slow as he watches Margaret experiencing sexual pleasure with him for the first time. 

He's hypnotized by the beautiful pink flush spreading all over her skin, and whispering her name with such reverence as he slides his hands along the backs of her thighs, the subtle and delicious change in angle when he lifts her knees just that much higher onto his waist allows him to sink just that much deeper into her. Her moans jump almost an entire octave in pitch, and his slow, fluid thrusts pick up pace. He raises himself up onto one arm for leverage, his other hand splayed on her flat abdomen before slipping his fingers between their bodies, just above where the two of them are so intimately joined. She arches almost violently, her fingertips pressing hard into his back and his neck, clinging to him tightly as she cries out her pleasure into his ear. It's not much longer before he buries his face in her neck with a loud groan, and another wave of euphoria crashes into her when she feels Brian, from somewhere deep inside her, following her over the edge. 

They're both panting hard, and his arms are shaking as he holds himself above her. Kissing his forehead, she relaxes the pressure of her fingertips on his back, and the touch of her flattened palms on his shoulder blades coaxes him slowly down onto the bed. He keeps his face nuzzled against her neck as she explores the terrain of his back with her fingertips, luxuriating in the feel of his solid weight on top of her.

Once his breathing and his heart rate have returned to normal, Brian kisses her neck and raises himself up on one elbow, looking down at her with such profound affection as he sweeps away a damp lock of her hair from her forehead. "Are you okay?" he asks gently.

She nods, needing a second to find her voice. "More than okay," she replies, smiling shyly. Looking away in embarrassment, she chews her bottom lip when she asks him, "Was it . . . was it okay?"

He feels his heart melt at her question, and he gently turns her face so that they're looking at each other again. "More than okay," he says sweetly, repeating her own words back to her as he moves his lips to her ear. "You feel incredible, Margaret," he whispers, setting every inch of her body aflame again. He places one hand on her hip, and she closes her eyes, presses her lips together tightly, and moans beautifully at the feeling of Brian slowly pulling out of her and at the feeling of their pleasure—his and hers—warm between her thighs. 

He lies down beside her and when he kisses the tip of her nose, she slides into his embrace and lays her head on his chest. He feels himself twitch when her soft lips smile against his chest just before she slides her supple little body up along his to whisper in his ear. "Happy birthday, Mr. Addison," she purrs in her most coquettish voice.

"Best birthday ever," he tells her, kissing her between each word. "I thoroughly enjoyed unwrapping my present, Mrs. Langston," he says, cocking an eyebrow and giving her a puckish grin. 

"What do you want to do for dinner tonight?" she asks softly, as her fingertips lightly glide across his collarbones.

"Hmm?" he murmurs sleepily, causing her to chuckle at how adorable he looks in this moment. "Let's dine in tonight. We can fire up the grill and have dinner al fresco. And besides," he says, opening his eyes and looking at her with a wolfish expression, "I don't feel like sharing you with anyone tonight."

She shivers at the suggestive, low timbre of his voice and kisses him deeply as his fingertips run up the length of her spine to tangle in her hair. 

Sleep is beginning to overtake her as well, but she fights it for a little bit longer. She lays her head back down on his chest, and listening to the sound of Brian breathing her in as he drifts off to sleep, she whispers to him, "I'm glad that it happened for us here and now—the two of us living together in this house, making love together in this bed. I'm crazy about you, Brian." She nuzzles the warm skin of his neck, her lips coming to rest in the notch at the base of his throat, her heart swelling when she both hears and feels him murmuring her name into her hair.

She knows that in a couple hours they will wake up with smiles on their faces. The sun will be setting as he fires up the grill, and she will make side dishes and iced tea in the kitchen. They'll eat dinner on the patio deck and wash the dishes together afterwards. Then, she'll read the latest book she's borrowed from the library, and he'll join her on the living room sofa after he's checked his emails in his study, watching the baseball highlights on ESPN with the volume on low as he massages her feet in his lap. 

And at the end of the night, the two of them will be right back here, with her slender frame enveloped by his lanky one. She doesn't know whether they will make love again tonight. But she is certain that he will whisper "Sweet dreams, sweetheart" to her and that she will reply with a smile and the words "Good night, darling" as they drift off to sleep. Whatever else comes their way, those are the words they'll whisper to each other every night from here on out.

Beneath her palm, Brian's skin is warm and his heartbeat is steady. For so many years, she had dreamed about experiencing this feeling—serenity, certainty—in a small house beside the ocean. But as she lies here—in this house, in this bed, beside this man—she finally has the strength to loosen her grip on the fantasy she had clung to for so long and perhaps begin replacing it with a new one. Brian had once told her that scent is heavily tied to memory, and she smiles as she fills her lungs with the scents of crisp, cool cotton sheets and strawberries from the farmers' market and freshly-cut grass and newly-planted gardenias. They all come together, increasing in intensity when they mix with the scents of their skin—the invigorating spiciness of aftershave on his neck and the lingering notes of mint and bergamot soap on her shoulders.

Her eyelids grow heavy with sleep, and her last coherent thought is that she and Brian have taken another step forward and towards each other this weekend. It is the end of one season and the beginning of another, and the two of them have begun the journey of transforming a house into a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for "And Everything to Gain"  
> 1\. Something to Talk About by Bonnie Raitt  
> 2\. You Can't Have Bad Luck All the Time by Jackie Greene  
> 3\. May I by Trading Yesterday  
> 4\. Bloom by The Paper Kites  
> 5\. Kiss Me Slowly by Parachute
> 
> Dedicated to Princetonian: Because "All the other girls here are stars / You are the Northern Lights". And though I may be head over heels for the actress who portrayed Margaret Langston, you'll always be my favorite Coleraine-born lady. Thanks for always talking me off the ledge.  
>  


End file.
